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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380833">The Language of Flowers (and the moments in between)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach'>thumbipeach</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Art Teacher!Kieran, Bro they r in love!!!, Domesticity, Drabbles, F/M, Flower Symbolism, Flowers, Fluff, Fluffy, HIGHKEY POWER COUPLE, Happy!Lauren, Language of Flowers, Light Angst, Marriage, Married Life, Maybe - Freeform, No Murders, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD mentions, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Power Couple, SIMP!Kieran, Slice of Life, What’s on the tin, badassery, but like not explicit, but not a lot, dont do it i can’t have alcohol poisoning on my hands, dont worry, drinking game how many times can I hackney in a vase of insert flower here, like that’s the whole thing it’s just flowers, once more, or bad things, softee, v Fluffy I promise, vague sexy time, what is new, wow what a concept, yeah sorry maybe there are some bad things, yup still badass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:40:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>102,695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They live on through petals of different colors.</p><p>(They live on through themselves.)</p><p> </p><p>Snippets of domesticity that didn’t make it into AAoCaA.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>378</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Daisies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Daisies: Innocence, purity, loyal love.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the first day after Kieran’s release, she rolls over to find nothing but a rapidly cooling bed and rumpled sheets. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, panic sets in--that it was all but a happy dream, the ones she’s always hated--but then she feels around more and finds a single daisy hidden among the white comforters. Its petals are unfurled around the large center, a couple of them crushed from its position within the blankets. Not perfect, but she delights in it anyway. </p><p> </p><p>She makes her way to the kitchen and finds him there, black bangs falling into his eyes, escaped from his haphazard bun, frying eggs on their small gas stove. She watches him work for a moment, reveling in the serene, unmarred face, sans tension, apprehension. Sans half-moon glasses and cold stares. Sans streaks of blood.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she makes herself known, knocking a small tune on the wooden doorframe, and he looks up. She holds up the stem of the daisy almost like an accusation, except it is with mirth and a warmth that seeps through her bones.</p><p> </p><p>“You remembered.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, looking down briefly to flip an egg before it got too cooked. </p><p> </p><p>“How could I forget?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles and doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to, after all. She comes up to him and hugs him from behind, grasping at the white shirt he wears. It is not dissimilar to the one he had when they first met, when she’d slammed his head into the concrete of an alleyway and named him her enemy. But instead of the faint traces of red and the scent of death, now it is clean, and smells of poppies and charcoal and a faint hint of mint, smells of him, who she knows him to be.</p><p> </p><p>They sit at the table silently for several moments, the only noise to break the untraceable nothing in the air being the sounds of their chewing. Then, a question.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want to do now?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran leans back in his chair and sits with his long legs crossed, his palms worrying divots into the worn pant legs. He doesn’t say anything for a few beats. Then he sighs, a resigned sigh after what seems a century of deliberation, and says:</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren frowns. He continues.</p><p> </p><p>“I never planned this far.”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs a breath of air and stabs her fork into a stubborn blueberry on the china plate. “I know that.” </p><p> </p><p>Looking down at her lap, nervous hands fiddle with the loose strings on the hem of the dress shirt she wears. It’s his, and it reminds her vaguely of late nights spent planning, charting movements like sailors at the mercy of a wide sea. </p><p> </p><p>He notices, because of course he does. Taking one of her hands in his, he brings it up to his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“I do know that I want to spend it--my time here--with you. So I’ll start from there.” </p><p> </p><p>He grins winningly, and her heart swells with how much she missed it. Missed him. She moves towards him, to which trajectory she doesn’t know, only following the blossoming, burgeoning warmth in her heart. Until he twists his wrist with a customary flick and his smirk becomes teasing.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Or, you know, I could always just go to my farm, officer. Would be positively lovely.”</b></p><p> </p><p>She is taken aback for a moment, but then grins and leans forward. “You wouldn’t know how to raise those chickens without me, subordinate. Don’t get cocky.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, why? <b>Because you’re one of them?”</b></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hey!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She kicks his dangling leg underneath the table, not enough to bruise but enough to make him yelp and jerk back, before reciprocating with a swift jab of his heel. It is her turn to let out a cry of defiance, and then they are at it, full force, wrestling feet and legs underneath the table like two children, laughing all the while.</p><p> </p><p>When they call a ceasefire after the forks nearly get involved, they simply sit in contented silence, reveling in the relative novelty of the other’s presence, created by the mistress time herself. The morning sun beats through the small window of Kieran’s apartment, illuminating the chairs and the shag rug and the small gramophone in the corner, the desk where several sheafs of broken sketches lay, five years old but never forgotten. She’d gotten him sketchbooks over the years, and they lay underneath the chestnut oak legs of the bench in little black stacks, papers spilling out of the warped pages where watercolors dotted the edges. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Outside, the city still turns, as it had the past five years since. <em> L’Eglise </em>was rebuilt, bodies cleared from the rubble and exploded stone replaced with stained glass paintings. The castle refurbished. Shady areas of the city raided and cleaned out, the police officers descending like a swarm of bees to honey, rattling out the remnants of an organization not yet long gone. </p><p> </p><p>And amidst it all, there sat two people who wanted nothing more than life to begin again without them in the forefront of it. </p><p> </p><p>They are made new, thrust into clarity. Innocent and pure, two small buds caught in the wind of a world that moved on without them.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran stands and takes their empty plates, setting them down in the sink without much fanfare. Then, making his way back over to her, he picks up the forgotten daisy on the table and tucks it behind her ear, brushing strands of her hair back in reverence. Cupping her jaw, he looks at her like the stars to his night, like she is the one thing in the world worth looking at. Like they are two parts of a whole.</p><p> </p><p>“So, <em> mon bonheur? </em>Figured out what you want to do?” She smiles cheekily up at him as his eyes light up mischievously. </p><p> </p><p>“Indeed, I do think I have.”</p><p> </p><p>Sweeping her into his arms, their laughter echoes throughout the tiny apartment as they make their way back to the bedroom. The daisy stays in her hair, a comforting weight on her conscience. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I found I like little domestic drabbles a bit more than I like writing plot. Well.</p><p>Little snippets that won’t make it into AAoCaA for convolution reasons. For the most part not in chronological order. Will not be updated as regularly as the main fic, I just write these when I’m sick of the angst ;)</p><p>Kudos are daisies &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Palm Leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Palm Leaves: victory, success, triumph.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m telling you, I cannot in good conscience allow it to be sold at that-“</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Listen, </em>good sir,” and Lauren brings herself up to her full height, leaning over the table and placing a commanding hand in the middle of the peppermint shards and the innumerable amount of deeds and letters on the real estate agent’s desk, “That house just so happens to be my childhood home. I grew up there.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re--”</p><p> </p><p>“A Sinclair, yes. And if my parent’s will is accurate, that house went to my uncle after their deaths, and thus legally goes on to me. I am already conceding to pay for it even though <em> legally </em> I should not have to. So then," and she leaned further, golden eyes piercing threateningly into the man's doughy, punched face and boiled gooseberry eyes, " <em> Are. We. Clear? </em> That I will <em> not </em>take back this estate on 400,000 pence?"</p><p> </p><p>"<em>O-Oui Madame." </em></p><p> </p><p><em> "Thank </em>you." And with a flip of her hair and a toss of her head, she signed the ledger in a neat, crimped scrawl.</p><p> </p><p>Later, when she was walking to the cafe in the 9th precinct, she looked into the reflective window of a bookshop and saw exactly the woman she'd become looking back at her. Where dark circles and haunted eyes once looked out from a tense and stern face, now held softer tones of fire, of a pleased set of the cheeks and a charming quirk of the eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>She looked happy. Victorious. Laughing a little to herself, she continued onward down the street, her heels clacking a decisive rhythm on the cobble.  </p><p> </p><p>The little bell on the cafe chimed as she entered, and all the current patrons deigned to glance vaguely at the newcomer who had graced to disturb the peace inside the room that smelled of roast coffee and orange muffins. All except for one, who locked his azure eyes with hers and whose face broke out in a splendid grin. Matching Kieran's wide smile with a bright one of her own, she sat down across from him, brushing down her silk skirts and ordering a strong black coffee and a blueberry scone.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Bon aprés-midi, Mon Bonheur."  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> "</em>Hello, darling. So? How'd it go?"</p><p> </p><p>Lauren paused and looked at Kieran silently for a few moments. The dramatic effect of her silence registered brief concern on her husband's face before she broke out in a victorious fit of laughter, and slapped a sheaf of paper down on the table between them. </p><p> </p><p>"Your wonderful superior has <em> done it! </em>We have the house!"</p><p> </p><p>Kieran laughed with her, his face displaying acute pride and admiration as he picked up the copy of the deed and studied it. "Well done, officer! You managed to get him to lower it by <em> that much?!" </em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren looked positively triumphant, like a cat that had gotten it's cream. She leaned forward winningly. "I <em> am </em>quite intimidating."</p><p> </p><p>"That you are, <em> mon bien-aime. </em>A force to be reckoned with, Chief Sinclair."</p><p> </p><p>Her heart felt fit to burst with affection, and she resisted the urge to surge forward and kiss him in the adrenaline of her success. Instead, she smiled playfully and bit into her scone appreciatively. </p><p> </p><p>A little lull in the conversation came about, where they merely sipped their drinks and enjoyed the simple comfort of each other's company. Then:</p><p> </p><p>"Oh! But I'm so rude," and Lauren put a hand excitedly on the table. "What about <em> you? </em>The university? Did they--?"</p><p> </p><p>Kieran's lips twisted into a little frown, his brows drawing together in a comical enactment of disappointment. Lauren was about to go through all the appropriate consoling motions when he suddenly leaned forward and changed his expression into one of pure joy.</p><p> </p><p>"I've got it! Full honors! They've hired me to come on Monday--"</p><p> </p><p>"<em> Oh Kieran! </em>You absolute devil, why would you--?"</p><p> </p><p>"Payback, darling! You can't pull one up on me, you know that!"</p><p> </p><p>She clasped his hand on the table between them and looked up at him with another bout of swelling affection. "Kieran. I'm happy for you."</p><p> </p><p>He smiled lovingly. "I'm happy for the both of us, Lauren."</p><p> </p><p>They basked for a while in the sunlight streaming into the cafe windows and the soft scent of fresh coffee and apple blossoms that signaled the start of an Ardhalis spring. Kieran looked towards the little double table by the window, where a waitress was serving a couple a pot of tea.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you remember--?"</p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiled. "Of course."</p><p> </p><p>Kieran's voice rose in pitch as he spoke in a falsetto. <em> "'Don't worry about it, Mr. Evans, I've dedicated my life to saving human disgraces like you—‘" </em></p><p> </p><p>"I <em> do not </em>speak like that--!"</p><p> </p><p>"No, that's true, it wasn't like that."</p><p> </p><p>Lauren laughed. "Where were you sitting? There?" </p><p> </p><p>"No," and he pointed behind him. "I was there. I used to sit in that spot quite often."</p><p> </p><p>Lauren hummed thoughtfully. "Watching me, were you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't get so conceited, officer. I just happened to notice the commotion."</p><p> </p><p>Silence fell for a few moments, where they reminisced on the sunlight stained evening that would lead to a night that set their lives into torrential motion. Then:</p><p> </p><p>"Strange how things turn out, no?"</p><p> </p><p>Lauren turned to Kieran and looked reflectively into her husband's open face. She nodded. "Yes. If you'd told me six, oh, even five years ago that it'd be--" she gestured towards the two of them "--like <em> this </em>I'd have laughed in your face."</p><p> </p><p>"And shot me."</p><p> </p><p>"Well. Probably that."</p><p> </p><p>He smiled for a moment. Then: </p><p> </p><p>"Do you regret it?" And his voice dare she say was a bit smaller and a little timid. She answered immediately. </p><p> </p><p>"Not a bit, Kieran. Don't be silly."</p><p> </p><p>They finished up and, pocketing the deed and the other sheafs of Kieran's resume and paperwork, they made their way out, her hand in the crook of his arm, into the evening light. The palm branches growing in the myriad pots by the door of the cafe brushed in the wind kicked up outside, and Lauren swept their soft leaves with her fingertips almost absently as they passed out.</p><p> </p><p>Walking down the streets towards Kieran's apartment, they were stopped by the boy still hawking the morning's copies of <em> Le Journal </em>. He hollered and waved his hand, attempting to sell off the last remaining bundles.</p><p> </p><p>Once, Lauren would have stopped dead on the street, frozen in the sticky, neverending depths of guilt and longing for what once was. Once, she would have tossed a coin to the little boy and snatched the paper up with greedy fingers, scanning for fragments of the past and passages that would give her some sort of relief. Once, she would be drowning in a sky bereft of rain.</p><p> </p><p>Now, she only gripped her husband's arm a bit tighter and looked on forward. Towards the street ahead of them. Towards the future. </p><p> </p><p>"Miss! Mister! Read all about it!! The new Chief of Police's inauguration set for this Sunday!"</p><p> </p><p>Both of them did stop at that, looking back and down to the little boy who was pushing the newspaper in their faces. </p><p> </p><p>"Read all--<em> oh!" </em></p><p> </p><p>Looking rather embarrassed, the boy spluttered his cries down to incoherence as Lauren picked the newspaper gingerly from his fingers. On the front cover, a large picture of Lauren was set to a backdrop of palm leaves and laurels. Her inaugural photo. Looking back and forth between the newspaper and the woman before him, color slowly flooded into the boy's ruddy cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>Looking down at the boy, Lauren smiled and handed the paper kindly back to him. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm already living it! Wouldn't want to read about it, now too!” She said jovially, with a hint of amusement.</p><p> </p><p>She could hear Kieran chuckling in the background as the boy turned a beet red and was reduced to a whisper. "Miss, I'm--"</p><p> </p><p>Lauren laughed and waved a hand. "Quite alright young man!" Tossing a coin into his fingers, she saluted playfully and tugged on Kieran's arm. "Keep the change!"</p><p> </p><p>And they walked on, into the victory and finality of a setting sun. A day well finished. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here’s another one. I’m not procrastinating I swear.</p><p>Kudos are blueberry scones &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Delphiniums</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Delphiniums: fun, lightheartedness, levity</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Kym would not stop shouting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were ensconced in the corner of the Aevasther's political ball, the one they hosted around every election year to wine and dine the current up and comings for the season. As such, it was a grandiose affair, attendees fitted to the nines with decadent velvet suits and shining sprites of tulle and diamonds flitting across the polished dance floor like fairies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And of course, Kym was making a scene, ever the dissenter to proper decorum.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The heads of the police precincts were always invited in good favor, their opinion on the campaigns of Ardhalis' political scene factoring in greatly to the general population's decisions. Kym and Will were here as the reigning Head Sergeant and Captain of the 11th, respectively. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren, quite obviously, was familiar with this type of affair. She'd come with her uncle more than once, years and years ago, and now she came as one of them--the venerated Chief of Police herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She couldn't quite believe it still. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Listen, </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen--</span>
  </em>
  <span>I don't quite understand--" Kym was saying through sprays of watermelon juice--"how an event like this can't manage to cater to my base needs! How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>they only have one platter of fruit--and sullied by </span>
  <em>
    <span>blueberries, no less!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Kym, if you don't lower your voice I'm sure you'll cause the opinion of the entire 11th to drop almost instantaneously."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh that's a load of bunk and you know it! My reputation is sparkling and pristine, I could go right up to whichever trussed up peacock was speaking just now--that Grandmere--Gran—guy or whatever the hell—and pull his pants down and they wouldn't fire me, just watch."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ladell! God--" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will, appearing suddenly from behind his shouting wife, snaked a clandestine hand around her waist and led her from the refreshment table, quickly slapping her hand away from her third champagne flute of the night with the practiced reflexes of a mother. Lauren watched them with affectionate amusement, not missing the way Kym, even while drunk, melted into Will's side, leaning subtly into his touch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Look, you know I love you, but could you manage to not bring me to the point of aneurysm just </span>
  <em>
    <span>once?!" </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym looped her arm around her husband as he tugged her from her vices. "I love you too, Williame, but why must you be such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>prude?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She broke out of his grip with an elegant twirl, the beads of her satin gown spreading like swan feathers across her dainty ankles. She threw her hands up in joyous fanfare, wrists twisting and the sheer fabric of her stole falling down her arms like waterfalls. Her head was thrown back, blue hair whipping about a face splashed with the light of the chandeliers above. She was beautiful--alive and alight with a fun-loving spirit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We're at a </span>
  <em>
    <span>party</span>
  </em>
  <span>, darling husband! We should take upon us the opportunity to be merry!" She held out her hands in appeal to Will, and leveled him with an inviting gaze. "Come! Dance with me!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will stood for a few moments, in doubtful stupefaction, then his face softened as he looked at her, adoration replacing the momentary annoyance that always came with Kym being Kym. As he took her hand and made to venture out onto the dance floor, Will turned back to Lauren, who was still lounging alone by the refreshment table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When’s he getting here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren sighed, swirling the blush-red liquid in her glass. “He warned me he’d be late--something about the university reviews taking more time than they should. But he promised he’d come as soon as he was out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym frowned and looked at her. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’ll come?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shot her a look and Kym withered a little. Lauren softened at the regretful look on her face, then nodded assent. “Yes. I trust him. He’ll be here soon, hopefully.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym nodded, though she still looked a little displeased. Then, tugging on Will’s arm so hard as to pull it out of its socket, she dragged him down into the sea of floating skirts and perfumed crystals. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym had never really warmed up to Kieran fully. Will had, over time--he understood the unspoken agreement between him and Lauren. That they were partners, they would never hurt each other, and he saw that unbreakable pact in their every action. But Kym, perceptive as she was, was also still inherently distrusting of who she knew to once be their greatest enemy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren initially tried to keep out of it, but Kym could see how their strained relationship was affecting her, and agreed to a truce. She knew that it’d take time, however--and that wasn’t really ever going to change.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighed, alone once more at the table laden with an ivory tablecloth and a smorgasbord of food. Nothing much held her interest, and she found herself looking around vaguely, fingering the indigo petals of the delphinium blooms piled high upon a table centerpiece. They'd plucked them off their long stems, clustering them in purple bunches upon a serving plate for decoration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She picked at the fabric of her dress in a nervous tic. It was a simple grey number of satin, capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline that allowed her to breathe amiably, the elegantly cut hem dotted with crisp white pearls, trailing up the bodice like little ants. It was the perfect shape and had enough room for dancing—if only her preferred partner was here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, as if summoned by her mere thought, she felt a searching hand slide around her waist to rest on her stomach. She would have reacted quickly and brought her elbow down into the intruder’s ribs had she not familiarized herself with the scent of poppies and charcoal, and had before mapped the exact position of the nicks and calluses on that hand before. Tilting her head back, she met the man’s azure gaze with a delighted smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello darling. Missed me terribly?” He is dressed in black, a simple fit of dark fabric that pressed lovingly into his form and tapered at the tucked waist slightly. And, true to form, a couple of ties at the top were loosened, exposing his collarbone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled. “If I told you no, what would you say?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grins wolfishly and twirls her around, kissing the back of her hand and not letting up with the grip on her waist. “I’d say it was a lie, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon amour.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs with joy, and the way his face lightens, the previous stress of the day vanishing in her presence, it makes her happier yet. “You wouldn’t know that!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but I would!” He pauses briefly to grab a champagne flute from the table, downing half of it in a spit of adrenaline. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry I’ve kept you waiting.” He waves an arm, the one not still clinging to her hip. “The board kept me for longer than they said they would.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’d it go, the meeting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed, but his eyes were still mirthful. “Good! They still won’t budge about changing the curriculum, but they’ve accepted my suggestion to begin more integrated coursework.” He pauses, silently asking her if he was boring her with technicalities, but she urges him to continue with a wave of her wrist. “A lot of students that attend still take art as an elective and hadn’t before considered it for their transcripts seriously. But some of them had expressed their desire to, and so I suppose it was a joint effort on our parts.” He smiles, looking out towards the sea of people.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren hums, and notes the distinct look of pride on her husband’s face. She appreciates it: the joy his job gives him now rivaled anything before it. She—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s grateful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran gestures to the floor. “Are Kym and Will—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re out there, yes. I’m sure we’ll find them. Kym booked it out of the hall after Mr. Grandier’s speech.” She turned to him, and he gave her a look of suggestion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want to go out and see if we can’t locate them?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles, looping her arm in the crook of the elbow he holds out to her, still half-full champagne glass forgotten beside the delphinium piles. “Sure thing, subordinate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They swirl onto the dance floor, a gloved white hand in a bare broad one, fingers intertwined. As they shuffle their feet to the lilting tune of an upbeat waltz, she is reminded of that time so long ago, when she was in a startling crimson and he in burnished black, ribbon in his hair and cunning in his eyes, her wearing both false hair and a sultry demeanor, golden leaves offsetting the pain in her face. It’s such a starling contrast that she cannot help herself but laugh out loud when she looks to Kieran, scanning the room for their friends. He looks down at the sound, and there must be something telling in the way she smiles at him, for he laughs too, a twin version of hers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They find them a little ways off from the middle, their hands interwoven and bodies swaying to a tune of their own. When they twirl and notice the opposite couple, their eyes light, and Will smiles delicately at the newcomer to their group, the fourth addition. Kieran lifts an arm in acknowledgment to both, a sheepish smile on his face, but something in the way he looks at Kym tells Lauren that he means it more for her, a gentle but not too prodding wave. To her immense surprise, Kym lifts her fingers as well, reluctantly, with a soft look in her eyes that she has not yet seen. Lauren lightens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time, indeed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How goes it, Kieran?” Will asks him, as they twirl in concurrent circles, meeting at the center. Kieran laughs amiably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It goes!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did the university—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, they liked the idea!” He laughs. “I remember, I have to credit you for it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Confused and a little astonished, she looks to Kieran for explanation. He elaborates.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will told me about some old things his father did at his music school--told me he thought I should bring it up to the university and see what they thought about it." He looked a bit embarrassed, hesitant, like she'd pounce on him as she would've a different time ago, when she was hell-bent on keeping him away from her closest friends. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he relaxes when he sees the look of adoration on her face, a soft look that tells him everything. She places her hands at the nape of his neck, toying with the stray hairs there, and looks to him in amusement, levity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm glad, Kieran."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn't need to explain what; he knows she's not just talking about his success.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Kym, staring at her with an unnameable expression. It’s almost unsure, almost doubtful, but nonetheless, it is soft and kind all the same. Kym turns back to her husband, sweeping herself into a dramatic bow and pulling on his wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Come, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hawkes! I have to get away from these love-struck idiots before I throw up all my watermelon.” She gestures vaguely to the two of them, a devilish smirk on her face. Kieran laughs, and Lauren’s face is embarrassed. Will sighs and drags her away, muttering to himself as Kym laughs heartily, with fervor and a joy that is still fresh and new.</span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you did that you’d throw it up on <em>me.”</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <em>”Noted!”</em>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The latter couple, left alone, merely threw each other a fleeting glance, and then burst out laughing. Lauren clutched at his shoulders in mirth as he chuckled lightly at their apparent situation, leading her delicately around another staring couple, annoyed at the loud cheer that disrupted the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The aforementioned melody softened into a slow ballad, and they stilled the pace of their movements until they were standing very close, her hands on his shoulders and cupping his neck, his hand resting delicately on the small of her back. They looked at each other like two beings sharing in a small joke, partaking in a private communication that was their own to possess. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, to her surprise, Kieran reach up to her ear, brushing the opal dangle lightly as he pressed something soft to it, tucking it in her hair. Reaching up, she felt for the object.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A little delphinium blossom, pressed and plucked. She laughed in surprise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"When did you pinch that, you little pickpocket?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He threw back his head. "When I came up behind you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon coeur! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Really," and he drew himself closer, pressing their bodies together so he could whisper in her ear, </span>
  <em>
    <span>"you should pay more attention."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren couldn't suppress a little shiver at his deep voice in her ear, one that had nothing to do with the lingering chill of the night that had crept in as the party winded into evening. Of course, he notices, the devil, and smirks, continuing to whisper like he was sharing a hushed secret.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I lied a little bit when I said the board kept me longer."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulled away a bit in surprise, but he applied pressure to her spine to keep her where she was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Did you? What--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I mean, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>true enough, it did let out late. But," and he leaned closer, his hand moving lower, subtly, "I took the time to do some...</span>
  <em>
    <span>reconnaissance." </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She let out a little gasp and looked into his eyes, matching his smirk with one of her own. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Did </span>
  </em>
  <span>you now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon bonheur? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Aren't I a good little subordinate?" He shivers infinitesimally as she presses her hand to his back, and it does not go unnoticed by her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I rather think you are."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiles, then looks around and lowers his voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"There's a coat closet on the opposite side of the building, from the west entrance." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She raises an eyebrow, but cannot suppress a little shudder when his hand travels to her thigh, resting there unabashed, shameless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been a while--they'd been busy, her organizing the still scattered precincts and him working long hours into the night, building a course for the semester. She supposed it'd been at least a month since they'd been truly alone together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grabs him by his collar, and it is like their old days, when they shared sacred secrets in the full view of others.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't think I can be seen leaving now, can't I?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What, with your husband?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>an honored guest, as Chief Sinclair, you know. Trying to sully my good reputation?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran smiles, and it is not unmatched by her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, but Chief Sinclair--I would never do anything to place a black mark upon your reputation!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's not a lie, and the soft feeling of warmth comes unbidden amongst the building heat in her core, the dichotomy that would always be present. She smiles in assent, and he takes that as his cue. Leaning in a final time, he whispers instructions in her ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'll leave. Wait three minutes, then follow me." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he is gone as fast as he came, a wraith, a wolf among sheep, but she can pick him out, following him appreciatively with her eyes; she always would be able to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She waits, the delphinium flower held gently in between her fingertips. Then, after three tense minutes of anticipation, she starts towards the west entrance. She thinks, in the back of her mind, that she can feel Kym's laughing gaze prickle on the back of her neck. Shaking her head in her bull-terrier fashion, she continues onward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She reaches the door unthwarted, and, shutting the door behind the extravagant and gilded stage that is the ballroom they played cat and mouse in, she begins down the hallway, down into the lit building, the attendees dwindling away to naught.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He meets her shrouded in shadow, as he always will, and pulls her by the arm, laughing and joyful, into the sea of coats in the closet, leaving the small blue petals in her wake as the only evidence of their presence.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oof ;;; SPICE</p><p>Haven't updated this in a while, I apologize!! Here's something to placate you :) I was grinning and blushing like a little fool the whole time I wrote this lol</p><p>Also: Kywi makes an appearance finally (and not just in mentions)!!!! Honestly I'm really sorry about the lack of Kywi content from me but there are reasons for it (a: we don't know too much about them and I don't like straying too far from canon when it comes to backstory/speculation, b: Lauki trash, always I'm afraid). But once we know more about them I'd be delighted to write them :)</p><p>Also also: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)</p><p>Kudos/comments are delphiniums! &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Blue Irises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Blue Irises: faith, hope</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrew McMason, with the practiced movements of one who has been plagued with a consistent excess of boredom, flicked a dart and watched it hit just off-center of the bull’s-eye.</p><p> </p><p>He’d been a security guard at the Tower for just over a week now, and those eight days could be summed up in a single word: nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Absolutely nothing had happened. When he’d taken up the post he’d expected <em> something, </em> for it being the most heavily guarded prison complex in the Ardhalis main, but the whole building had been generating nothing but static silence for the whole time he was on duty, barely an outside patron to grace the door and to shatter his sickness of <em>l’ennui.</em></p><p> </p><p>He huffed, running his hands through his mousy hair to stave off the pangs of sleep, and fishing through a little cardboard matchbox for more darts. It was terribly late, that was the thing; he hated working late into the night. He had <em> no clue </em>why he’d taken this shift—</p><p> </p><p>As if on cue, his boss, a stout, greying man with bushy whiskers and generally gruff demeanor shoved a cup of coffee in his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Getting tired, newbie?” Mr. Crenshaw poked, snorting a little at the strained sigh Andrew let loose.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—“ he started nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh it’s alright I suppose, to admit it. I understand it.” He took a seat next to the young man, sipping his own cup and looking judgmentally at the dartboard, noting all the haphazardly thrown pins barely scraping by at the target.</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll kill if you scratch the wall, you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes, I’m sorry—“</p><p> </p><p>“S’Fine.” He took another sip. “You’re not half bad.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew let loose another nervous chuckle. “Thanks.” </p><p> </p><p>After a couple moments of decidedly awkward silence, Andrew hazarded a question.</p><p> </p><p>“I...wasn’t expecting it to be like <em> this?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hm?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> mean,” </em> and he threw up his hands, “it’s so dull! When they transferred me here I was actually <em> excited, </em>because—well—“</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the <em> Tower.” </em>Mr. Crenshaw snorts. “Yeah, we got that a lot. But that’s the thing, see—“ he picked up a dart from the box, rolling it in his fingers like a cigar. </p><p> </p><p>“—it <em> used </em>to be quite active. I’ve been here for a while, y’know?”</p><p> </p><p>“How long?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, look at me, boy. My skin’s withering! Probably at least forty years now, it’s been for me. But it hasn’t been too long since the Scythe—people here for a fraction of that time still remember how it was.”</p><p> </p><p>He set his coffee down on the desk in front of them and leaned back, staring up at the dust collecting on the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>“Used to be a pretty stressful job. You should be thankful that it’s boring, really.” He turned to him. “Don’t have to worry about any assassins coming in, now! They’re all here, behind our bars.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that all an exaggeration? Something to scare us with?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh, </em>didn’t they do a number on you! No—Ardhalis was never a really nice place anywhere.” He looks down at his hands thoughtfully. “But I suppose Lune solved that for us, now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lune? Come on—<em> that’s </em>a myth, now.”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Crenshaw leveled him with a steady look. “You’re not exactly from around here, are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew shook his head. “I’m from a small town out West.” He shrugged. “Came here after the Scythe was cleared.”</p><p> </p><p>The older man nodded. “Then I take it that means you don’t know exactly what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>“I—well, we heard about it out there. But we never really believed it. I mean—come <em> on!  </em>It really took a duo of vigilantes a matter of months to take down what your police had been trying to for a decade?” He laughs, twirling a dart in his hand. “I remember my friends and I dismissing it as bunk. Wasn’t believable at all—and the sheer lack of evidence! I mean—“</p><p> </p><p>He threw the dart in his hand, and it banked wide and barely missed hitting the wooden wall. Mr. Crenshaw hissed with displeasure, and Andrew balked, hastily shoving the box back into the desk drawer.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—well, you don’t even know who they are!”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Crenshaw sighed. “No. That we don’t. But—there are some theor—“</p><p> </p><p>He was cut off by the sound of the main door opening. It startled Andrew; it was nearing midnight, and nobody in their right mind would come in at this hour. The outside security used the side door, so who—</p><p> </p><p>He came face to face with a young woman in her late twenties.</p><p> </p><p>She was possessing of a singular, silent beauty that was immediately captivating to the young man previously bored out of his mind. Her long scarlet hair was braided loosely and hung over her shoulder, dotted with small daisy petals, and she wore a crisp cream blouse tucked neatly into a soft black skirt underneath a robin’s egg coat. She moved with decided grace and elegance, her skirt billowing behind her as she made her way from the door and into the lobby towards the front desk. </p><p> </p><p>In her fingers, she held the single stem of a flower: a blue iris, the indigo petals unfurling beautifully in the perfectly preserved swirl of its leaves.</p><p> </p><p>But what was really striking were her eyes; they were things of a startling topaz, hawk-sharp and at the same time silent, knowing, honest. They drew him in and kept him there, almost like he wanted to open up and tell her everything, his deepest secrets and desires. They were sparkling, thoughtful, intelligent, and—</p><p> </p><p><em> “Pensive,” </em>he muttered almost unconsciously, as the mysterious woman leveled her gaze at the both of them, placing her palm on the desk. Immediately, and to his horror, her face soured a little, and she turned to him with an almost despairing look.</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Crenshaw leapt up from his seat. “Detective Sinclair! You’re here—“ he looked back at Andrew a little helplessly, and then back at her—“my apologies for this one here—he’s new.”</p><p> </p><p>Detective Sinclair, as he now knew her to be called, nodded a little in understanding, her face letting up ever so slightly. She looked at him now with slight amusement as she bowed a greeting. “Hello there.”</p><p> </p><p>Her voice was soft, mellow, a comforting lull in the dead of night. Andrew could do nothing but splutter nervously and reach out a shaky hand, which she took with practiced, polite nonchalance. “Andrew McMason, <em> Madame. </em>A pleasure.”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to Mr. Crenshaw with a question in her eyes. “May I—?”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “Yes, it’s alright. He’s ready for you.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a sudden, subtle joy on her face that Andrew found rather startling, and she held the iris up slightly, showing it to the man in front of her. He considered the thing, and then nodded as if in affirmation.</p><p> </p><p>“An iris today, huh, Detective?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled and laughed a little. “Yes! They’d just finished growing and I picked a couple this morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice to hear. You can go, I’ll log it in the book for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Thank you Monsieur! </em>I’ll not be too long—“</p><p> </p><p>To Andrew’s immense surprise, Mr. Crenshaw smiled ever so slightly at her, a warm little thing of acceptance. “You always say that, Detective! I know how long you take.”</p><p> </p><p>She flushed a comely pink and made to protest, but the older man waved a hand towards the steps that led to the main part of the Tower. “Go ahead. Take as much time as you need. But keep an eye on the time! I want you out here by—“</p><p> </p><p>“I understand, <em>Monsieur! </em>I promise it won’t be much.” Detective Sinclair nodded gratefully, bowing once again to the both of them before striding over to the steps, disappearing up them with soft clacks of her black heels.</p><p> </p><p>Andrew started. “You’re just going to let—“</p><p> </p><p>But Mr. Crenshaw shook his head, sitting down placidly, as if he didn’t just allow a complete stranger into the prison complex. “Don’t worry about it, lad. We know her.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew spluttered. “<em> Who—?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’ll get used to her here.” He turned to the young man, a slight twinkle in his eye. “Her name’s Lauren Sinclair. She comes every week.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Sinclair— </em>wait, as in—?” He connected the dots that had been nagging him for the entire exchange. Mr. Crenshaw nodded. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. The Chief’s niece—well, rumor has it she’ll be the Chief soon, anyhow.” He picked up his coffee mug, swirling the stagnant liquid around before taking a hesitant swig. “She has permission to be here from the High Court.”</p><p> </p><p>“On what business? For a case?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. That’s the thing.” He paused, looking at Andrew out of the corner of his eye, his gaze keen and shrewd. Then, he leaned forward suddenly.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, newbie. What I’m going to tell you know can<em> not </em>leave the Tower, understand me?”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew was baffled. “What—?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Understand me?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Y-Yes Monsieur Crenshaw.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Alright then.” And instead of drawing back, he drew closer still, dropping his voice low and speaking hurriedly, hushed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “She comes for the Hyacinth.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The younger man was bewildered. He reeled back to see if Mr. Crenshaw was playing some sort of game with him, but his eyes were dead serious. </p><p> </p><p>“Not—?”</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Crenshaw nodded. “The Hyacinth.”</p><p> </p><p>“She comes to see the <em> Purple Hyacinth? And you allow—?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Quiet! </em>She has permission, I said so.” </p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t—“</p><p> </p><p>“Look, kid.” Mr. Crenshaw sighed, leaning back once more. “There are some things here that don’t warrant question.” </p><p> </p><p>He paused. “The story is a bit unclear. They met somewhere before all this, think? And then everything went down—and she’s still here.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew scoffed. “If you ask me, I think she’s delusional. He’s stringing her on, the poor woman! There’s no way a <em> murderer </em>like him—“</p><p> </p><p>He looked at him sharply, and Andrew stopped the flow of his words. “You’ve never spoken to that boy, have you?”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew looked confused. “Who? The Hy—“</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. You will have to, eventually. Quiet kid. Never would have guessed it out of him. But—he’s here and that’s that.” He looked solemnly out the small window next to the dartboard. </p><p> </p><p>“We don’t ask questions about it. He’s respectful—never talks much unless she comes. We leave them be.”</p><p> </p><p>He turned harshly on the younger man. “And <em> you </em>leave it be too. Don’t cross that woman.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew raised a brow. “Why? Is she—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Got her own brand of ruthless, from what I’ve heard.” Mr. Crenshaw said, staring him down. “Like I said, there are some things you don’t ask questions about.”</p><p> </p><p>Andrew nodded, settling down once again, his hand fluttering back to the matchbox of darts. But even as he threw one and managed dead-center, he couldn’t help himself; he found his eyes fixated on the staircase, where the mysterious woman with the blue iris in her fingertips had vanished in a shower of daisy petals.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>She moves quietly, soundlessly.</p><p> </p><p>She deals in shadow and noise, makes barters with them to get what she wants: the illusion that she isn’t there, the hiding spots she so desires, the wraith-like quality to her steps.</p><p> </p><p>She walks among the crosshatch of cell bars, most of them dim to allow the occupants their fitful sleep. But she looks for the one that is lit well by moonlight, one that houses a small lamp and a desk piled high with sketchbooks and stray leaflets, one that houses the one person in the prison she cares a damn about.</p><p> </p><p>She finds it, then. At the very end of the corridor, a candle burning in its holder in the wall, the soft sound of pacing drifting to her ears. She moves into the wall to hide her form, her black skirt swaying into the cloak of darkness—</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, <em> amour. </em>Not this time.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice breaks like soft lightning, and she sighs in defeat.</p><p> </p><p>“One day, Kieran. One day I’ll get you.”</p><p> </p><p>She walks an extra two paces to meet him head on beyond the bars. He stands in the dead center of the cell, the moonlight casting a perfect stream of light on his back, illuminating his features in stark blue. He is poised like a dancer, feet perfectly positioned and spine straight. And on his face is a wide smile—the one that crosses his face whenever he sees her again. It blooms like an iris in spring, his eyes twinkling and stance joyful. </p><p> </p><p>“Highly unlikely, darling. You know me—“ and he closes the distance between them, striding elegantly to the edge of the cell, as much as the bars would allow, standing in front of her like a stoic statue, hands brushing his front for stray charcoal stains. </p><p> </p><p>“—I always know when you’re close.”</p><p> </p><p>She matches his smile with a bright one of her own, tossing her braid over her shoulder in a show of confidence. “Well, subordinate? That ego can’t last forever, now! I’ll sneak up on you yet.”</p><p> </p><p>And then she assumes her usual position: body against the wall, sliding down until she sits surrounded, the wood at her back and steel at her side. He does the same on his end, until their heads are level and if the bars were to disappear, they would be locked shoulder to shoulder. All the teasing is gone; they are vulnerable things in the soft candlelight, two moths caught in the fiery glow.</p><p> </p><p>“I missed you, <em> mon cœur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiles ruefully. “You see me every week!”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “You know that’s hardly enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry. I missed you too, <em> mon bonheur.” </em>She looks over at him, blue meeting gold. His hair is loose around his shoulders, falling in black waves around his thin cotton undershirt, and she is struck with the urge to take it in her hands and thread her fingers through it, braid it back and brush his bangs out of his eyes so she can get a better look at him. She finds herself reaching up wanton fingers to do just that, nudging the cold steel with her warm fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>He mimics her, and the least amount of contact they are afforded—a touch of their pads through the gaps in the checkerboard of metal—is a salve all the same.</p><p> </p><p>“How is everything? Will, Kym, everyone—alright?” He asks. </p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Everything’s fine. Will and Kym are back from their honeymoon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Nice. Where did they go again—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Somewhere out East. One of the port cities there is famous for their watermelon plantation—“</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. No questions asked, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren laughed. “No. I think Will had the fleeting hope that she’d get sick of them eventually—but they did end up having a good time, the both of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren nodded. “They’re very happy. It’s good to see.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran smiled. “Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>A lull. Then:</p><p> </p><p>“Ah! I sent off your portfolio to the university.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em> thank </em>you—“</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll get back in the next month, they said, but knowing them it might be longer—“</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine—the anticipation will be enough, I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren leaned her head against the steel, the chill of it soothing her head. “You’re going to do wonderfully.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed, drawing his legs up to his chest and laying his head against them. “You really think—?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Yes, </em>Kieran, come off it.” She turned to him, leveling him with a sharp look. “You’re good, truly. I don’t see a single reason why—“</p><p> </p><p>“But what if—I mean—“ he looked forlornly down at his hands, stained with residue charcoal.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” And she brought her fingers up again. He considered it for a few seconds, before smiling ruefully and pressing his to hers once more.</p><p> </p><p>“I believe in you. Believe me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do, <em> mon cœur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Then that’s that.”</p><p> </p><p>Again they sat in comfortable silence, bridged only by the faint flickering of the candle and the distant creaking of the cots in the adjacent cells. Then, Lauren remembered her offering.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah! Here—“ and she presented him with her gift; the blue iris’s petals furled perfectly, the dark moonshine color glinting in the soft warm glow of the candlelight. He paused, and then a grin broke out onto his face.</p><p> </p><p>“They grew—!”</p><p> </p><p>“They did! I was worried—“ and she fed the stem through the hole in the bars, him catching it with a delicate hand as it fell into his palm—“that the rain these past couple of nights would have drowned them. But they came up!” </p><p> </p><p>“Beautiful.” He said, twirling the stem in his fingers. She admired the way he handled the flower; he took to it delicately, fingertips stroking the petals with immense care, like it was a priceless artifact she’d just handed to him and not a mere Iris. </p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>He turns to her then. “I wasn’t talking about the flower, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>She flushes, hiding the euphoric smile that threatens to overtake her face behind her coat sleeve. “Kieran. <em> C’est embarrassant.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>He laughs, a raw thing from his chest that fills her with longing. “I live only to embarrass you, you know that!”</p><p> </p><p>But suddenly, she falls quiet. Sorrow and melancholy fill her eyes as she tilts her head back to rest it against the wall. He stops, looking at her in soft concern.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Two more years.” </em>She turns to him. “It’s only two more years, now.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs harshly and shakes his head. “I don’t think like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don't?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I keep my mind on the time I’ll go stir crazy.” He leans his head to the side, looking at her dead on. “I can’t live here just waiting for it to end, no matter how much it hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>She bites her lip. “Does—does it hurt when I’m here?”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head decidedly. “<em> No. </em>Far from it—“ and he holds up the iris, the blossom caught in the cold light of the moon outside—“I’m alright as long as you stay here with me.”</p><p> </p><p>She wants to cry, and it embarrasses her, that stark, unbidden emotion. She hides it with a watery laugh, pressing herself against him as far as she can with the cell wall in the way. He does the same, chuckling a little.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be alright, <em> mon cœur. </em> Was that a lie? <em> ” </em></p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, smiling softly. “No. It never is.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles sadly. “You should probably go. It’s late—they don’t like you here past one.”</p><p> </p><p>She peers down at the little gold watch on her wrist. “I’d best be off then.” She turns to him. “You have everything you need?”</p><p> </p><p>He stays on the floor when she rises, nodding an affirmation. “Yes. Inform me when the university gets back to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will, you know that.” She brushes her knuckles over the bars one last time, and he bows his head. In the light he is a starlit prince of the moon, even sitting crouched as he is. The night dances across his skin and leaves her breathless, as it always does whenever she sees him, even that first night when she hated him to his core. She resists the urge to unlatch the door and throw herself at him, an urge she has to quell daily, the more they are apart.</p><p> </p><p>“Until next week, darling?” And he looks up at her with that gaze that holds everything, the look that he gives her like it’s the first time he’s seen her face.</p><p> </p><p>“See you next time, subordinate.” </p><p> </p><p>The woman with the hyacinth in her heart salutes mockingly, bowing and striding down the corridor in a click of heels.</p><p> </p><p>The man whose heart is in her hands twirls the stem of the iris before pressing it softly to his lips, still sitting by the edge of the cell, the light of the moon outside fading to nothing in his palms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Little thing I spat out as a warmup before AAoCaA :) </p><p>Simp!Kieran shoutout &lt;— here </p><p>I usually update AAoCaA sometime in the middle of the week, anticipate it either tomorrow if possible, or Wednesday—depends on how busy I am :&gt;</p><p>Comments/kudos are blue irises &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Hollyhocks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hollyhocks: Ambition</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kieran dug his fingers into his temples, attempting to stave off the exhaustion threatening the corners of his eyes, the fatigue plaguing his head. Leaning his elbows against his desk, he heaved a generous sigh, pencil still caught in his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>It was late into the night, late spring air filtering through the open window of the study and blowing the corners of leaflets off the desk. He was bent over curriculum work, back bowed over sheets of lilting print that he found himself steadily struggling to decipher. </p><p> </p><p><em> It was too much. </em>He couldn’t possibly rework the course for students who only wanted to take it semester long--but it really was too bad then, because so many of them wanted to take the class not for the credit but for the simple joy of the thing, the scent of pencils and oils and chalk and the steady timbre of Professor White’s voice as he lectured.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran sighed, leaning back and stretching his legs wide, long like a cat arches its back. He trained his eyes on the ceiling, and then, finding nothing to sate his mind, he looked around the room until his eyes fell on an unfinished painting by the window. </p><p> </p><p>He’d brought it in here to dry by the open shutter—it was in oil, and it smelled terribly if left in the studio, so he’d brought it here in hopes the air would disperse the scent. He looked at it rather woefully, staring down the unfinished fuel of the petals, ones held on several delicate hollyhock bunches. He’d done the vase first, for fear that the flowers would be more difficult to tackle, but now it was left half-done, and he didn’t quite feel like proceeding.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, he needed a hollyhock to look at.</p><p> </p><p>That reminded him—</p><p> </p><p>A soft grin overtook his face, and, placing a pearlescent paperweight on the remaining files, he leapt upwards with practiced grace and alacrity, striding over to the study door and making his way down the corridor, to the right and up a couple rooms, to his wife’s own office.</p><p> </p><p>He found his officer in much the same position he’d been: bent over scores of paperwork, hair tied up in a bun and pencil between her teeth as she scrawled in a cramped hand. The daisy he’d given her this morning still rested behind her ear, the sight of which made him smile, unbidden. </p><p> </p><p>She rubbed at her neck and let loose a groan of frustration, at which point he decided to make himself known. He knocked a little tune on the doorframe, striding in with decisive fanfare, bare feet making nary a noise as he crept along the wood. She made no move to acknowledge his presence other than a slight twitch of her wrist, but he knew she was aware of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Working hard, officer?”</p><p> </p><p>She hummed in response. Prodding further at the unsatisfactory response, he rounded the corner of her desk and picked the little daisy stem out of her hair. She looked up at him, then.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled. “Take a break. Come for a walk with me.”</p><p> </p><p>She appeared to consider him, then grimaced sadly and shook her head. “Kieran, these have to be done—“</p><p> </p><p>“Ahhh, no—I recall Dakan saying they weren’t necessary until next week,” he tutted. She leaned back in her chair, massaging her scalp with repressed exasperation.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes, </em>I know—but you know how these things work. The moment I have these reports done he’ll be on me with fifty more—“</p><p> </p><p>“Ex<em>actly </em> why you deserve a break, <em> mon amour!” </em>He stepped back and crossed his arms. “You work too much, Chief Sinclair.”</p><p> </p><p>She cracked a smile at that. “I do think that’s the general consensus.” Then, she quirks an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you have something you need done too, dear?”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed. “Oh don’t talk to me about it—that’s why I’m here, officer!” He leaned against her desk, balancing his weight on the edge of it. </p><p> </p><p>“You know,” he began to exposit, holding up a finger, “my colleagues always say the stresses of the day are chased away by the love of a good woman.” He leant forward, sweeping a mocking hand.</p><p> </p><p>“And so I have done as asked! I have sought out a woman to give me all the affection I need.” </p><p> </p><p>Lauren began to laugh, shaking her head as she moved to challenge him. “Is that all I’m good for, subordinate?”</p><p> </p><p>“You keep me company!”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut <em> up, </em>you fool,” she laughed, batting his arm. He smirked, then his face softened into an expression of genuinity. </p><p> </p><p>“Come, take a break, <em> mon coeur. </em>We’ll go for a stroll in the garden—it’ll be good for the both of us, working our asses off as we are—besides—” and he pointed a thumb backwards, towards the general direction of their little copse of flowers—”I need to check if the hollyhocks are growing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, so your ulterior motives emerge!”</p><p> </p><p>“Come <em> on—“ </em>and he took her hands in his, tugging them up, up, until she was standing, a soft smile on her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Al<em>right, </em>subordinate.” She relented, bringing his fingers up her lips to kiss his knuckles in promise. “Let me get my shawl and we’ll go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>He let her go, and he made his way downstairs, pulling on shoes and his soft blue coat, shrugging it over his house clothes and rolling his shoulders to ease the excess strain. When Lauren came down, her crimson shawl slung over her shoulders, he smiled and took her arm.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Lana!” </em> He called over his shoulder, as Lauren unlatched the door. <em> “Don’t lock the door! We’ll be in the garden for the night.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Oui, Monsieur! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you!” And with that, he pushed himself out into the night air.</p><p> </p><p>The Sinclair estate was possessed of a sprawling lawn, and the Sinclair-Whites had taken to planting an extensive flower field in their spare time, multi-colored buds decking the grass in methodical abandon. Kieran took to it mainly--digging through the soil and caring for the sprouts on his down time. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren looped her arm into the crook of his as they stepped on the gravel pathway, making their way through the trellis that marked the entrance and passing the wild sunflowers that had sprung up at the edges, the rows of gardenias and hyacinths, all colors except for one.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran breathed deeply, the scent of new blossoms and late spring and the feel of his wife’s arm in his draining the last of his stress from his body. Lauren smiled ruefully, her fingertips brushing the tip of a freesia petal. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for talking me into this--it <em> is </em>rather nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“See? I’m always right--”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em> don’t </em>start with that--”</p><p> </p><p>“Hah!”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, nestling her head against his bicep as they continued on. The night provided a soothing chill that contrasted the building heat of high afternoon, and the crickets in the bushes provided song as the stars glinted above. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah--those weeds.” Lauren frowned, gesturing vaguely to little dandelions and unwanted green leaves. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran shook his head as she bent down to pull them up by the root. “Don’t bother about it now--I’ll get them in the morning.” He pointed. “Let’s go--the hollyhocks are back there.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, fine.” She rose, spreading her hands in mocking defeat. “I’ll leave them be.”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “How do you manage to find work even when you’re on a break--? I should ask Kym to hold you back from that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em> Kym </em>can’t talk. She complains about me but you should see her at midnight at the office--I’m starting to think Will’s raccoon comparison isn’t entirely inaccurate.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Raccoon—?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Don’t ask.”</p><p> </p><p>They walked on. Lauren let loose a slight and terse sigh, and Kieran looked a question at her.</p><p> </p><p>“The High Court asked me if I wanted to consider reinstating the death penalty.” She frowned, and Kieran looked straight in front of him, towards the hollyhock patch now coming into vision. He matched her, brows drawing in.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean—I didn’t think—I said no.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran sighed and nodded slightly. He knew why.</p><p> </p><p>“But I’m wondering--people weren’t particularly happy about it.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “People weren’t too pleased with the trails ten years ago to begin with--they questioned my decision extensively and I began to think—“</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. “I don’t regret saying no—but I also understand the criticism.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran nodded. “Knowledge of both worlds, no?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled up at him. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>He considered. Then:</p><p> </p><p>“Stick up for yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked rather surprised, and he explained.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean--you have a defense, right?’ He turned to her. “If you use your reasoning I’m sure they’d listen to you.”</p><p> </p><p>She frowned. “I’m not like my uncle was--people don’t really take to me at first glance.”</p><p> </p><p>His lips quirked up a little. “Then <em> make </em> them--work for it. You’re smart and charming--get into it. Find out what <em> they </em>want from you and give it to them.”</p><p> </p><p>She turned to him with parted lips and a curious glint in her eye, then a fond smile overtook it. She pressed a kiss to his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, <em> mon bonheur. </em>That’s helpful.” </p><p> </p><p>“Think nothing of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence once more. Then:</p><p> </p><p>“I’m having a bit of trouble myself.”</p><p> </p><p>It was her turn to look at him quizzically, openly, and he began to pour it out.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know if people would be interested in my class if I provided it for only a semester. I’d understand if they took it as an elective but this—“ he grimaced. “I suppose I’m just in a bit of a rut. And the dean wants my curriculum outlined by next week and I just—“</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” She cut him off with a wave, hand on his elbow as they stepped over crags of ivy growing over the pathway. “You can do it.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him, hard, focused. “They wanted you for a reason, right? And the <em> students— </em> if they ask for it, even the ones who don’t major in your subject—it must mean that it’s the class they want—they want <em> you.” </em>She raised a hand to his cheek, thumbing a little scrape of blush-pink paint that had gone undetected below his ear. He smiled, leaning into the touch.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re interested. Trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>He took her hand, placing a delicate kiss on her fingertips, a soft, loving smile on his lips. “Thank you, <em> mon cœur.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>She nodded, matching his smile with one of her own, just as adoring. “Think nothing of it.”</p><p> </p><p>They reached the hollyhock trellis, and Kieran looked at the rows of soft pink flowers with minute appreciation. They weren’t straight—hollyhocks were wild things, and grew intermittently—but they clustered pleasantly, blooming in pink spurts around the soil. Lauren beamed. </p><p> </p><p>“They did grow! How nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Kieran knelt, fingering the petal nearest to him thoughtfully. “They’re not fully bloomed, but I think that’d be a nice subject—if they weren’t fully formed yet. Here, help me—“</p><p> </p><p>And they both bent down, Lauren holding the stem and Kieran taking to it with a tiny clipper, snipping the stems with practiced ease. He twirled them in his fingers, inspecting the buds with an artist’s eye—for imperfections, however small.</p><p> </p><p>However, even if he did find some—ones with holes in their leaves, crushed tips—he still kept them, for an artist was never more skilled than one who learns to appreciate the flaws of nature. </p><p> </p><p>That, he has learned.</p><p> </p><p>When Lauren rises off her knees, he presents the best one to her, a burgeoning thing of violent magenta, unfurling like a star.</p><p> </p><p>“For you, darling. As thanks for humoring me.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiled and took it, holding it up to her nose and savoring the soft scent that flitted up from the center. “They’ve come up nicely—ah, but they’re not fully grown yet. What—“</p><p> </p><p>“I’d planned to use them in that painting I’ve been working on.” He gestured back to the house, where the study window could be seen. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that one you were lugging around yesterday?” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “<em> That </em>one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, show me when you’re done.” She held the hollyhock close to her chest, touching the barely-there petals reverently. </p><p> </p><p>“You know I always do.”</p><p> </p><p>But he wasn’t thinking about the vase, or the flowers beginning to take shape on the faraway canvas. No, he was stuck in the moment, of the moonlight shining off his wife’s face and dotting her cheeks like stray diamonds as she held the flower close, in delicate fingers, fingers that have held guns, have washed of them streaks of blood and pain, of which hold his heart tightly in their grasp and have all liberties with it. That was the canvas tonight—that was the one thing he could never truly immortalize properly, that he’d have to keep studying, keep mapping, keep detailing so that he wouldn’t lose a fraction of its meaning, its importance.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s not go inside just yet.” He set down the stalks of flowers on the nearby stone, holding out a hand of his own.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A few moments of silence, and then Lauren let loose a peal of laughter, all bells and chimes and berries in the winds, and took it with ardor.</p><p> </p><p>“I have—and I know he is a fine dancer.” She drew herself close as he spun them in a circle, no music to be heard but in their hearts. He smiled, pressing his lips to her head as she rested hers against his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for talking me into this.” She whispered. </p><p> </p><p>“Again, I’m always right, see?”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, subordinate.” </p><p> </p><p>He rested his hand on her waist as he dipped her, laughing as she clung to his neck in surprise. When he righted them again, she pulled one of her own, leaning in close, closer yet, until her lips grazed his ear, a secret imparted in soft cadence.</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m not going to finish those reports tonight.” </em>And she drew back just enough to look him in the eyes, blue meeting gold in steady waves. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>He smirked.</p><p> </p><p>“Who am I to deny you, my good woman?”</p><p> </p><p>She matched him, daisies at her feet.</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely nobody, <em> Monsieur!” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Nobody:<br/>Lauren: *exists*<br/>Kieran: *happy simp noises*</p><p>Not too happy with this chapter but damn am I starved of ‘romantic moonlight walk’ content fr fr</p><p>Comments/kudos are hollyhocks &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Gladioli</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gladiolus: strength of character, honor, conviction</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Best read while listening to ‘Little Talks’ by Of Monsters and Of Men</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They forget, sometimes, that February 17th is a yearly affair.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a day like any other, surrounded by more days on either side, minutes and hours and weeks and months, punctuated by its return with every turn and tick of the clock. It sneaks up on them with quiet footsteps and dogged smiles, and leaves them empty and rotting, like stolen apples from an unripe tree.</p><p> </p><p>The first few years, she can barely manage to leave Kieran’s apartment after the fireworks and revelry start. She holes herself up in the empty house, tucked into a mattress that hadn’t seen the light of day or another patron besides herself in nearly—well, a year now. She listens to the bangs and pops from outside, the raucous cheers, and tries to close her eyes and not see silver and grey, a cold smile and the warm, fresh cream of falling flowers.</p><p> </p><p>For him it is much the same. He sits in a dingy cell and tries not to look out of the bars encasing the window beyond, from where he can see flashes of bright red and orange coming from the tallest spire of <em> L’Eglise. </em>He shuffles brittle parchment and tries to take to it with a pencil, but nothing comes out but purple, violet turned scarlet, and the feeling of a sword puncturing flesh.</p><p> </p><p>When Kieran joins Lauren in her misery, it’s a bit more bearable. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t venture outside; Kym and Will leave them be the moment the dawn breaks through. They keep to themselves, barely speaking and barely moving, only to close their eyes together and try not to bleed themselves dry in stained glass and church spires. They press themselves into the sheets of their bed, as if they were trying to drown in it, fingers barely touching as they try to reconcile the swirling waves of nausea in their hearts, the sounds of celebration raging like a forest fire outside their sanctuary.</p><p> </p><p>This year, Kieran is startled to find his wife absent from the house. </p><p> </p><p>He raises an eyebrow when he finds the bed still made, her shawl draped over a chair in the corner. He deliberates for a while, but then he reaches the only logical conclusion he can, and sighs with resignation—and a hint of fear, as he walks out of their room and down to the wine cellar, making a decision within himself.</p><p> </p><p>She’s on the balcony, draped on a divan and eyes trained unseeingly on the chimneys lining the skyward alleyway leading to the church beyond, the lights blindingly set against a backdrop of stars and the haunting presence of a waning moon.</p><p> </p><p>“Have they started yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren turns, the graceful wave of her loose hair shifting to reveal harried eye bags and a wan smile. She thins her lips and shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>“They wait until the moon is a little lower than this,” she points out. Then, she eyes him keenly, throwing a wary glance at the champagne bottle he grips in a lone hand, the other one too shaken to hold much.</p><p> </p><p>“What—?”</p><p> </p><p>He holds it up with a smile that does not reach his eyes, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his shirt. “We might as well, since we’re here.”</p><p> </p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t—“</p><p> </p><p>“What’s the point? Everyone else is doing it. We should cut loose.” He comes to sit in the chair opposite her, swinging his legs up against the cushion and popping the champagne cork with a sudden loud bang. Lauren winces, but takes the flute he offers her, anyway. The liquid spits up bubbles, and she looks at it warily as she takes a hesitant sip.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t take his eyes off of her as she leans back, tilting the glass to her lips and then swallowing delicately, closing her eyes and letting her lashes kiss her cheeks. His gaze shifts at the feeling of motion in his peripheral, and he looks down to find her twirling a gladiolus in her fingers, the petals descending shades of ivory and citrus, the stem brittle with excess handling. </p><p> </p><p>He understands, then.</p><p> </p><p>He turns back out to the horizon just as the show starts. There’s a whizz, the sound of a flare ascending into the night air, and then a loud bang as the little ball of fire explodes.</p><p> </p><p>It’s purple. Kieran flinches.</p><p> </p><p>She notices, because of course she does. She turns to him quickly. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to—“</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No.” </em>He shakes his head and waves a hand, shooting her a reassuring smile. </p><p> </p><p>He moves to say that he’s fine, but the words die on his lips as a lie, one she’d immediately send him inside for, kicking the bottle and cork after him. Instead, he heaves a sigh and tilts his head back, trying to ignore the dance of lavender and searing yellow sparks beneath his closed eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t tell you it’s okay—but I suppose it was high time I got out here.” He shrugs, looking over at his wife as she raises an eyebrow at him, worries her lip between her teeth. She looks upwards balefully as another firework rocks the sky, the gladiolus almost crimped with the way she’s clinging to it in a clammy palm.</p><p> </p><p>He waits for her to speak. It’s her move.</p><p> </p><p>“Do they know what they’re celebrating?” Is what she comes up with. Kieran can’t help the chuckle escaping his traitorous lips as he opens them for more of the stinging liquid in his flute.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re celebrating the end of a deadly plague,” he says. She grimaces.</p><p> </p><p>For the rest of Ardhalis, the February 17ths of the years following XX27 were days marking new beginnings. It was the day that marked the eradication of a fear that had gripped them for nearly a decade, a day where people could walk in the streets without worry of knives and lethal poison running through the cobblestone.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think they’d be upset if they saw us?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“That—” she gestures helplessly out past the rail, a cold, wry smile on her face—”we’re here now?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran raises an eyebrow. He thinks he knows where this is going.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re lauded as heroes—and look at what I’m doing now.” She looks down at the flower in her fingertips, her hair sliding over her shoulder and masking the grey hues in her cheeks. “I’m hiding.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran sighed, but said nothing. He recognized, deep down, that this was not his fight to fight. He let her keep going, and it was like a dam burst, saltwater and hidden secrets pouring out of her like a flood.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t stand it. This—”</p><p> </p><p>She inhaled sharply, and continued, the gladiolus twisting, crying out in her palms.</p><p> </p><p>“I should be <em> happy. </em>But all I can think about is how—how I—”</p><p> </p><p>She knit her teeth together, her back bowing forward and brows drawn. Kieran thinned his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“You have every right to be. You lost your best friend—<em> hell,” </em> he laughed harshly, “ <em> I </em>killed—“</p><p> </p><p>“If you start on that train I will <em> throw </em>you off this balcony, Kieran.” She turned to him with the force of a falcon, her eyes blazing, and he considered her countenance for only a brief moment, nodding solemnly and turning back to the horizon as another firework split the sky. </p><p> </p><p>“You know that I don’t blame you for any of—”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> know.” </em>He shook his head. “I don’t know why you don’t, quite honestly.”</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed, downing a good half of her champagne in a fit of exasperation, leveling him with a sharp gaze over the rim of the glass. </p><p> </p><p>“Because it wasn’t your fault. It—” she looked back outward, her eyes empty—“it was his.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran said nothing, and she continued in order to punctuate the silence.</p><p> </p><p>“But I just can’t—I can’t feel happy on the day he died.” She sighs. “Is that foolish of me?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran shook his head vigorously, shooting her a baleful look. “Absolutely not, Lauren. It’s not.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him gratefully, with a slight light in her eyes that brought him a little hope. She brought the gladiolus blossom up to her nose, inhaling slightly before draping her hand against the armrest with lazy indecision.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she turned her head slowly towards him as yellow stars flew across the rooftops, loud cheers coming from below.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to stay out here, Kieran. Really, I’m—“</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.” He tilted his head, determined. A purple spark lit up the night, and the only indication he gave to his distress was a subtle clench of his jaw. Lauren reached out with relaxed fingertips, brushing the backs of them lightly over his cheek. He smiled tersely as she retracted them quickly, the both of them unwilling for physical contact as the wave of anxiety grew larger.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not your fight to fight.”</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. “Of course it is.” He turned to her with a sardonic smile. “In <em> sickness </em>and in health, no?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Don’t </em>get all sappy on me, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>He chuckled, pouring more champagne out. Then, his face turned serious again. </p><p> </p><p>“I know it’s harder for you than it is for me. That’s why I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>He turned to her, and she pursed her lips. “Don’t say—”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, but it’s true.” He shrugged, eyes downcast and sorrowful, apologetic. “You lost—I can’t even imagine. I’m—”</p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t apologize. Really, I <em>will </em>drop kick you off if you keep this up.”</p><p> </p><p>He raises his hands in defeat. “No headshots?”</p><p> </p><p>That brings a laugh out of her, and he feels pride settle in his chest as he watches her face finally light up, brighter than a firework could ever be. </p><p> </p><p>“No. That’d be too loud.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you just want me to fall?”</p><p> </p><p>“So long as you don’t make any noise!”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>That’s </em>rude, officer—“</p><p> </p><p>She threw her head back and laughed, her cheeks rosy with mirth, and he cracked a smile too as he watched the grip she had on the gladiolus unfurl, the petals still beautifully colored in the dark blue washes of night, sparkling like its own star.</p><p> </p><p>They started up again, the loud shouts and joyous yells, as warm fires sparked high in the sky, all stemming from the tall swirls of a church spire. They both trained their eyes on it, the light flashing on the faces as they gazed placidly at the swirling colors. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d supposed it was time I stopped running.” Lauren cut in suddenly. Kieran turned to look at her, and she shrugged, the pale nightgown she wore shifting on her shoulders with grace. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sick of keeping myself in the house.” She raised an eyebrow, twisting her wrist in explanation. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s pathetic—they celebrate us, and here I am—hiding from it all.” She smiled, turning to him. “I felt like a change.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “I suppose that’s the right thing to do.” He swept back his bangs from his face, reaching back to slip the ribbon from his hair and unbutton his collar, sinking back into the cushions of the divan as the fireworks rose and rose and rose, paint splatters on liquid ink. </p><p> </p><p>Then, he raised his empty champagne glass, holding it between them and looking towards his wife with a slight grin, the curve of his lips inviting. </p><p> </p><p>“To <em> La Lune </em>, officer.”</p><p> </p><p>She regarded him for a few moments, then laughed in surprise, reaching for her own glass, bereft of champagne and victory but no less solid. She held it up in fingers that once held stems of gladioli, bleeding white from where they’d been cut from their roots. Instead, she twined the thin lute of the tall glass with a cock of her head and an acknowledging smile.</p><p> </p><p>“To <em> us, </em>subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>As the night faded to naught, so too did the darkest side of the moon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So. This is how this will go:</p><p>AAoCaA updates have primarily been on either Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. Starting from next week, in order to give both me and y’all time to emotionally process season 2 episodes, updates will shift to either Thursday, Friday, or Saturday if I’m feeling lucky. TLoF updates will remain sporadic, but will almost always occur on a Friday. I hope to do this in a relatively efficient manner so AAoCaA finishes as soon as possible without rushing, and TLoF can follow soon after. </p><p>I’m so not ready ;v; I also do not fast pass, so if content comes out 4 weeks behind all the screams you know your Peachie is just now getting to the screaming. None of the AAoCaA universe plot points will change with new information, fyi, keeping it very much my own thing :)</p><p>(another FYI, this chapter takes place a year before AAoCaA :D)</p><p>Comments/kudos are gladioli &lt;3</p><p>Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Snowdrops</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Snowdrops: Consolation, hope</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kym raised a scrutinizing eyebrow down at the bowl of punch she'd been working at for the past half hour.</p><p> </p><p>She frowned. </p><p> </p><p>Something wasn't right, still.</p><p> </p><p>She brought up a ladle to her lips, sipping delicately at the clear pink liquid, curving her tongue to catch every modicum of flavor.</p><p> </p><p>Then, after a few seconds of intense deliberation, she reached over for the vodka bottle on her left and promptly emptied the entire thing into the bowl.</p><p> </p><p>She grimaced at the resounding splash the upset liquid produced, but she let it go quickly in favor of grabbing the spoon again and tasting the newly altered drink.</p><p> </p><p>It smarted in her mouth, the bitter spit of vodka offsetting the overwhelming watermelon flavor, and she smiled in relative satisfaction down at her newest creation.</p><p> </p><p>"Watermelon vodka!" Kym pronounced triumphantly, sweeping her bangs back from her face in victory.</p><p> </p><p>Immediately after her announcement, an image of her husband taking one sip and spitting the thing out in a fantastic spray rose unbidden in her mind, causing both a reluctant grimace and the beginnings of a smile to play out like twin lovers on her face. She suppressed a quiet chuckle, taking up the bowl and tossing the remnants of lemons and watermelon rinds into the bin.</p><p> </p><p>"This will get him back for that fruitcake he tried to feed me last Christmas!" She huffed in relishing satisfaction, dusting her hands off and picking up the bowl, making her way to the adjoining dining room, where food for the night was set out.</p><p> </p><p>Ardhalis Christmases were always grand affairs, the excess of holly boughs and clamoring bells decking the streets always a good indicator of the descending holiday season. Outside Kym and Will's flat there lay a sprawling field of newly blooming snowdrops, and when their petals began to unfurl Kym began her own preparations for the holidays, dragging Will with her as she took a little hobby out of making things merry.</p><p> </p><p>She'd never really been able to do that, before. She'd been too caught up in the past, fighting every day to not be swallowed by the present, too much so that even when her mother roasted chicken and made her favorite meals, and her father gazed at her in concern over bushels of mistletoe, she still wouldn't be able to revel in the joys of the season without losing herself in the static of the lights in myriad colors.</p><p> </p><p>But she had her own family now. And they helped her. </p><p> </p><p>She smiled rather fondly, thinking of Will playing a steady tune in the drawing room for her, his head bent reverently over the keys but his eyes shining on hers, a little spark in them that rivaled even the brightest lights in the streets. </p><p> </p><p>Still grinning to herself, Kym nudged open the door to the dining hall with a deft hip, moving to set the bowl resolutely on the countertop, until suddenly, she came face to face with Kieran.</p><p> </p><p>It startled her, and she nearly dropped the bowl, vodka and all, if not for the little bar on the cabinet behind her catching her fall. Kieran grimaced a little, but then seeing as she was alright, went back to rearranging the little tray of tarts on the table he'd been fussing with when she entered.</p><p> </p><p>"<em> You." </em>Her voice was surprised and—she was ashamed to say—a little cold. Kieran looked up at her with slight discomfort in his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,” he intoned, bowing his head a little, his eyes closed in soft acknowledgement. </p><p> </p><p>She remembered the meek thing that had entered the precinct all those years ago, a little dove with white wings and a name to match, and how he’d done almost the exact same thing when he’d shaken her hand. She couldn’t quite hold back the involuntary set of her teeth, the narrow of her hawk-sharp eyes on his calm ones.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re still in here? I’d have thought you’d have gone out with Lauren and Will.” She set down the punch bowl and crossed her arms over her sweater, leveling him with a skeptical and scathing gaze that would have made even the most resilient of snowdrops wither. But not he--he looked at her steadily, face blank and showing nothing.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged, his fingers dancing over a tart with a yellow filling and mint leaves resting delicately on the top. “I thought I’d make sure everything here was alright.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran tilted his head. “The tarts I made—I didn’t quite get to taste them before we got here...so.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym looked down at them, analyzing the rows of crimped crust and assorted colors. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re not poisoned, are they?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran raised an eyebrow at her, and even she had the grace to wince a little.</p><p> </p><p>He regarded her steadily for a few moments, his eyes calm, the lights from outside dancing in them. Then, surprising her, he looked down placidly at the tray, picked up a tart with a bright crimson finish and tiny strawberry pieces, and held it up between them. His face was sardonic, and he gestured animatedly to the little morsel before popping it in his mouth with excessive fanfare, chewing exaggeratedly as he gave her a pointed look. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, alright, fine. I get it.” She waved a hand at him, the other hand skimming over a china plate laden with scones. She looked down at the tray, and stopped short.</p><p> </p><p>She pointed to one that had a coral color, a bit browned at the edges. “Is that—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm? Ah—” he picked it up, holding it out to her. “Watermelon flavor.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym looked at him incedulously, and he nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I asked Lauren what you like. And--I sort of got the hint, anyhow.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him thoughtfully, before taking the tart from him and biting into it. Immediately hints of sweet melon drifted on her tongue, and she found herself chewing appreciatively, despite her initial hangups. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright—I’ll concede. It’s good, Kieran.” But she pointed her finger at him, waving it slightly. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”</p><p> </p><p>He raised his hands in defeat. “I wasn’t expecting it to be, Lieutenant.”</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed, shaking her head. Then, suddenly embarrassed, she dropped her head, her eyes downcast and focused on the slices of winter ham behind his shoulder and not on his sharp, searching gaze. </p><p> </p><p>“At least have the grace to call me by my name.”</p><p> </p><p>His eyes flashed. “I wasn’t sure that was what you wanted—Kym.”</p><p> </p><p>She flinched slightly at that. She still wasn’t sure about how she felt about him—</p><p> </p><p>About the Purple Hyacinth.</p><p> </p><p>“Look.” She turned to him, hands on her hips. Her gaze must have been scathing, for even he reeled backwards a little at her force. She backed away from him, continuing to fiddle with the sleeves of her dress.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you doing this?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran frowned. “Must I have some sort of ulterior motive?”</p><p> </p><p>“It seemed that was what you had all those years ago.”</p><p> </p><p>He flinched visibly, and Kym stopped herself, realizing that where she was going was decidedly not appropriate for what was supposed to be a joyous night.</p><p> </p><p>She averted her gaze, her eyes trailing on the marble countertop before she looked back at him with new resolution. She huffed.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—“ she looked away in a mixture of irritation and embarrassment—“I’m sorry for that.”</p><p> </p><p>To her immense surprise, she looked up to see Kieran laughing slightly, his head thrown back. Despite everything, he was still incredibly handsome, his features lit by the soft moonlight and his eyes crinkled with subtle mirth.</p><p> </p><p>“What on earth are you apologizing for?” He laughed. She was taken aback by the honesty in his tone, and frowned slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—“</p><p> </p><p>“<em> If anything </em> ,” he lifted his hands, “ <em> I </em>should be the one apologizing.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym raised an eyebrow, studying him carefully. His face was sincere, open, nothing hiding seeming to hide behind it. He looked rather more like an earnest boy than a cold, rugged killer.</p><p> </p><p>Kym hesitated, then leveled her eyes with his, honey meeting frost.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”</p><p> </p><p>Kym sighed. Then, she spread her fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s Christmas Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m aware.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t really have the heart to dig into you on Christmas Eve.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran was silent, and she took that as her invitation to continue. Walking forward, she picked up another tart, and popped in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“So—for tonight—everything’s just okay. Not <em>good. </em>Just okay.”</p><p> </p><p>She pronounced it with finality, leaving him with no room to argue. Mouth full of tart and eyes shining with a signature mischief, she extended a hand to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Christmas Truce, Kieran.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked shocked, first at her and then down at her hand, like he hadn’t seen anything like it before. Then, he smiled, a warmth taking over his lips and holding his eyes hostage, and caught her hand in his own. </p><p> </p><p>“Christmas Truce, Kym.”</p><p> </p><p>They shook, and she stepped back, a calculating look on her face. She seemed to consider him, and he rubbed the back of his neck nervously at her searching gaze.</p><p> </p><p>Then, holding up a finger wordlessly, she strode over to the wine cabinet beside the sink, kneeling down and seeming to dig through numerous bottles, until she emerged, brandishing one in her fist.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s drink to that, then, eh?” She smiled slightly, holding up the bottle for inspection. It was a burnished red, darker than blood and swimming with scarlet notes, and the label looked old and worn, slightly yellow at the corners.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s—a bit strong, no?” Kieran queried, inspecting the bottle from where he was still standing by the punch bowl.</p><p> </p><p>Kym hummed noncommittally. “I guess you could say so.” She looked down at the bottle.</p><p> </p><p>“But it’s reserved for Christmas, anyhow.” She waved the bottle, a wink playing at her eyelid. </p><p> </p><p>“Will doesn’t let me take it out otherwise…”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean—I was thinking of sticking to this—“ he gestured to the punch bowl, having poured himself a cup. Kym didn’t have the chance to bleat a protest as he raised the cup to his lips—</p><p> </p><p>—and grimaced.</p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> hell </em>is this?”</p><p> </p><p>Kym looked sheepish. “Watermelon vodka.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked at her in incredulity, then set the cup down with a little nod, his face still contorted in reluctant disgust.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll take the wine, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good choice.”</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Lauren was <em> not </em>expecting to come in, arms full of snowdrop baskets, to find her husband and her best friend drunk out of their minds and arguing vehemently on opposite couches.</p><p> </p><p>But that was what she was seeing, anyhow.</p><p> </p><p>“All I’m saying is <em> logistically </em>I can’t call tomatoes a fruit—“</p><p> </p><p>“But you <em> know </em>that they are!” Kieran waved a hand, his face pitched with a mocking scowl and an empty wine glass caught in his fingers. “They have seeds—“</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t give a <em> damn </em>if they have bleeding eggs in them! If I won’t put it in a fruit salad, it’s not a fruit, so there.”</p><p> </p><p>“You're disregarding hundreds of years of scientific classification—“</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think I <em> care </em> about what those stuffed-up farts think about fruit <em> ?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re probably one of those people who puts pineapple on their pizza—“</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Excuse </em>you, is there something wrong with that—?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Yes!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren stole a glance at Will, who was holding a small basket of snowdrop pickings and gazing at the bickering pair with a withering look. Lauren cleared her throat, Kym and Kieran’s heads snapping around to look at the newcomers.</p><p> </p><p>Kym slurred a drawling ‘<em> Williame!’ </em>at the same time that Kieran sang out a haphazard ‘darling!’ They both looked at each other before erupting again in lilting speech.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Lauren,” </em> Kym called, “tell your <em> husband </em>here that his opinions on fruit are horrible and that he needs to stuff it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have <em> not </em> indulged you for the past half hour just to be <em> insulted </em>like this!”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren cleared her throat. “What is going on here, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>Will had walked over to the table between them, picking up the empty wine bottle. He looked aghast, waving the glass in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“Kym! Did you two drink this<em> whole </em>thing—?”</p><p> </p><p>“What? No—“ she hiccuped. “Only like, two glasses!”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Kieran drawled, a hand over his eyes as Lauren switched on the overhead light, illuminating the room. His bangs fell in front of his eyes, hair mussed with the way he’d been running his fingers through it. Lauren couldn’t help the faint smile on her face as she picked up a snowdrop gingerly, moving to sit next to him.</p><p> </p><p>They could hear Will berating Kym lightly as he gathered her in his arms, moving the wine glasses away from her as she belted out protests, but it faded into the noise of the background as she shifted his hand away from his eyes, tilting his chin so that his azure gaze met hers. They were clouded with drink, but there was still a dancing flame in them that drew her in as it always would. </p><p> </p><p>She smiled as his lips curved lazily, his eyes drifting to her own unabashedly as she tucked the flower behind his ear.</p><p> </p><p>”You’re beautiful, <em>mon amour.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“And you’re drunk, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Am I?” </em>He slurred, clearly affronted, but unable to hide the proceeding hiccup that burst forth. Lauren raised an eyebrow sardonically. </p><p> </p><p>“Looks like it.”</p><p> </p><p>"Well--you know I'm not lying, am I?"</p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiled a little. "No. I know."</p><p> </p><p>Will looked over at her. “It’s getting late. I think you should get him home.” He looked down at where Kym was tucked under his arm, nudging her fondly before his face turned back to one of exasperation.</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t want them waking up on Christmas morning and making themselves sick.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re still <em> here, </em>you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiled, nudging Kieran with a stray arm, looping his elbow through her own. “You heard him. Come on, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> fine, </em>officer—“</p><p> </p><p>“Clearly not. Come on.” She left no room for argument, and he muttered incoherently before rising with her, stumbling a little as she looped his jacket around his shoulder, brushing them down decidedly and stepping back, looking behind her at her friends.</p><p> </p><p>“Merry Christmas Eve, you two!”</p><p> </p><p>“Merry Christmas, Laur!” Kym called, burying her face into Will’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“And—“ she looked up slightly, her eyes swirling with something unnamed as she looked at the fourth addition to their group—“Kieran.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked back, smiling a little. “Thanks for the wine, Kym.”</p><p> </p><p>“No need.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren looked briefly shocked at the amicable interaction, then a happy smile overtook her face. She looked at Will in question, who only shrugged, a small grin playing on his own lips. Then, they breezed out the door, leaving the Hawkes alone in their living room. <br/><br/><br/></p><p>Will looked down at his wife, a hand on her waist to keep her rooted to the couch. She rested a stray palm on his chest, and he smiled at her lovingly.</p><p> </p><p>“You going to be alright for a moment by yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a child, Williame.” But she nestled into the crook of his shoulder nonetheless, muttering contentedly underneath her breath. Will smiled fondly, pressing a kiss to her temples, rising as he took up the empty wine glasses and bottles, carrying them to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>When he returned with a single cup in his hand, he settled back down beside her, looping an arm around her waist as they both lay back against the cushions, staring up at the ceiling decked in bright yellow lights.</p><p> </p><p><em> “So—” </em>he whispered in her ear—“I’m assuming there’s a reason you got him drunk?”</p><p> </p><p>Kym hummed, raising her head to meet his eyes. “I guess so.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, she pouted. “I just had to see what he was like, really.”</p><p> </p><p>Will frowned. “I’m surprised you talked to him, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugged, falling back onto his bicep, her hair tickling his skin over his sweater. He brushed her bangs back from her face, his fingers lingering at the pearl stud in her ear.</p><p> </p><p>“We made a truce.”</p><p> </p><p>Will smiled a little. “Did you?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not <em> so </em>bad, I suppose,” she conceded finally, with a definitive wave of her hand. “He honors his deals, at least. But don’t expect this all the time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, he raised the cup in his hands. “Merry Christmas Eve, honey.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Merry Christmas Eve, love.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He lifted the cup to his lips, tilting his head back and swallowing—</p><p> </p><p>—and then promptly coughed it up again.</p><p> </p><p>“Kym. How much vodka did you put in this?”</p><p> </p><p>She threw a hand over her eyes to hide from his scathing glare.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Oh—only about two shots.”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Really.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Lauren shrugged off Kieran’s arm as she walked up the steps to the estate, dangling the keys from her fingertips as she dodged her husband’s hands.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to get you to <em> bed.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I <em> told </em> you, <b>I’m not drunk.”</b></p><p> </p><p>“Liar.” She threw back at him, opening the door with a soft click. Dragging him by the lapel inside, she left him to slip off his coat as she kicked off her heels, shaking snow out of her hair and lashes. Then, turning to the grandfather clock at the far end of the hall, she grimaced.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s nearing midnight—<em> come, mon bonheur. </em>Let’s go.” </p><p> </p><p>Kieran slumped against the wall, looking as though he wanted to sink down into the floor. “But—“</p><p> </p><p><em> “No </em>buts.” She tugged his arm, looping it around her shoulders and grasping his waist as they both ascended the stairs together.</p><p> </p><p>“You smell of wine.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s understandable, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t try to be smart with me, or I’ll leave you on the steps.”</p><p> </p><p>“My officer is so kind to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren scoffed as she nudged open their bedroom door, pushing her husband down onto the bed as she made to undress, opening their dresser with a creak. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Kieran slump down into the pillows with a relieved sigh, his hands coming up to cover his eyes as he rubbed them in exhaustion. </p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em>good to you.” She pronounced with a huff, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling on a silk nightgown. Kieran hummed, a pillow muffling the deep timbre of his voice. </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> are.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She turns, surprised at his admission. “Really! I think that’s the first time you’ve agreed with me on that.”</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed from under the blankets, his fingers now fumbling with his own buttons, scuffing his collar. She goes to light a candle beside their bed, and the flame washes his chiseled face in startling yellow and orange, framing his eyes in complementary washes of bright fire.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—it’s an <em> issue, </em>that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Yes—” </em>he huffed in exasperation, pulling his shirt off of him before tossing it to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“You see, the thing is, it’s been an issue for the past eight <em> years.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>She stopped and looked at him, hiking up the hem of her ivory silks to come and sit beside him on the bed, combing through his hair lightly. As she brushed the bangs back from his eyes, she found herself staring into them, bright and set in fading darkness, phases of the moon caught in them. </p><p> </p><p>“I just—I’d do anything for you, officer, you know.” He scoffed. “Absolutely anything!”</p><p> </p><p>He hiccuped as he fell backwards against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “I just woke up one day and I found I couldn’t refuse you anything! It’s a <em> problem!” </em></p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t help the bubbling laugh that sprung up to her lips. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear as he raised his head, evidently delighted that he made her laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“So you see? My woes?”</p><p> </p><p>“I see your problem, subordinate.” She leaned in closer, and they were alone in the world together, two beings caught in the wind and thrown against the sea. He stared at her, his eyes darting over her face and making rounds from her eyes to her hair, still brushed with trails of snow, to her lips and the dips of her neck.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> beautiful, </em>darling. Have I ever told you that?”</p><p> </p><p>She looked taken aback, a flush encasing the apples of her cheeks. Then, she laughed, throwing back her head and giggling, rather like a young girl. </p><p> </p><p>“You did, a while back—but you could say it more!”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran huffed, a petulant pout on his face. “I take back everything I said—you’re cruel!”</p><p> </p><p>“I rather think I am!” She smiled. “And I’ll continue to be so, if only for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You really are so—”</p><p> </p><p>The chiming of the clock downstairs cut them off, and they looked at each other in silence as the gongs rang out through the house. The estate was rather cavernous, at times, but when they were there together it always felt homey, small, filled with brightly lit rooms and huddled walls that held their whole lives in them.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled at her husband, laying a hand on his chest as she leaned over him, her eyes shining in the candlelight. </p><p> </p><p>“Merry Christmas, <em> mon bonheur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran laughed, reaching up a hand to brush her hair behind her face, catching beads of melted snow in his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>“Merry Christmas, <em> mon cœur.” </em>He tilted his chin so his eyes were level with hers. “Here’s to another year.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, finally leaning in fully to press her lips to his. He hummed in contentment and closed his eyes against it, but she pulled back just as swiftly, rising from the bed and making her way to shut the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Go to bed, now. It’s midnight. We have a day ahead of us tomorrow. I don’t need you with a dreadful hangover on Christmas Day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, alright. Whatever you say, <em> amour.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She clicked the door shut, standing still for a few moments. Then, she whirled on him, hands on her hips.</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> don’t </em>let Kym give you more than one glass of wine again, understood? Or I’ll shoot you through.”</p><p> </p><p>“Duly noted.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*sobs*</p><p>Kym and Kieran interaction! I promised it, didn’t I?</p><p>Big fat SKA time always you know me! But Will is an equal simp imo lol</p><p>I honestly don’t really have a set number of chapters for TLoF.  It’s going to run longer than AAoCaA (meaning it’ll continue after that is finished, which will be very soon), but it won’t have more chapters. I’m thinking maybe anywhere between 11-15? We’ll see. </p><p>Typically TLoF chapters are referenced in AAoCaA beforehand. Try and see if you can catch this one lol (also try and catch the vine reference lol ofc I had to it’s Kym).</p><p>Once again, I have an art instagram! Follow me if you want some Lauki art or just wanna chat, I’m very responsive there!</p><p>If I see anyone fighting about pineapple on pizza in the comments I’m shutting it down we accept everyone in this house!! </p><p>Comments/kudos are snowdrops! &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha<br/>Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Yarrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yarrow: healing, inspiration</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lauren’s feet dragged on the cobble, her once sure and confident stride diminished by the blood now trickling down her leg.</p><p> </p><p>She walked, attempting to mask her limp for the passerby that nudged past the girl with a pale color in her cheeks and an alarming expression of hurt on her face. She supposed she must look something rather frightful, more like a ghoul than a woman alive.</p><p> </p><p>She winced when she stepped past the gate, the cut on her head throbbing suddenly, as if recognizing dully, somewhere, through the haze of pain, that she was home in the end, the startling relief of that comfort nearly blinding.</p><p> </p><p>She grit her teeth as she unlocked the door, nearly kneeling to clutch at her calf in agony, the pain pulsing like a heartbeat. Groaning in the back of her throat, she began the treacherous trek upstairs, her leg shooting thorns up her body with every step it took.</p><p> </p><p>Then, about halfway, the bloody thing nearly betrayed her, giving out momentarily. Yelping, she barely caught herself with the rail, slumping against it and muffling a moan of pain with her sleeve.</p><p> </p><p><em> "Madame? </em>You're home!" Lana, their housemaid, called from somewhere in the dining room, the faint din of shuffling cloth coming through to her ears. She grimaced, hoisting herself up.</p><p> </p><p>"I am. Sorry for the lack of notice." </p><p> </p><p>She tried to keep her voice level, even. It worked; Lana didn't come out, merely continuing to communicate from her position in the other room.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Monsieur </em>is upstairs! He came this afternoon."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ah.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She'd been worried about that.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you, Lana. Carry on."</p><p> </p><p>"Will you be taking your dinner upstairs?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—most likely.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, without another word, not wanting to give herself away and throw Lana into hysterics, she grit her teeth and resigned herself again, lifting her foot as the bloodied skin shifted, blood dripping down her ankle in artful rivulets.</p><p> </p><p>Once she reaches the top of the landing, she stops, hesitating as she makes her way down the hallway that leads to her home office. It wouldn’t normally be a problem, the issue not stemming from the knowledge of the work she still had yet to do. No; she’d have sat herself down and ignored all the pain in her limbs if not for one thing, one obstacle impeding her solitude.</p><p> </p><p>The door to his studio wasn’t entirely open, but there was a crack enough in the door for him to see her if she passed. She tiptoed hesitantly, trying in vain to not drag her injured leg against the carpet.</p><p> </p><p>She’d just been about to breathe a sigh of relief at the threshold of the door, when she was stopped with a warm chuckle.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Lauren. </em>Come on, you know you can’t pull one up on me.”</p><p> </p><p>She freezes at his voice, a deer caught in headlights, blinded by pain and the soft tenor of his loving, unknowing voice.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re home ea—”</p><p> </p><p>And then he stops, and she turns to see that through the gap in the door he’d finally taken in her appearance. She can see the way he’d been hunched over an easel and canvas, a pot of yarrow blossoms he’d been working away at sitting to the right of his work. Paint covers his arms and has managed to find its way to his hair, his chin, his cheeks, and Lauren’s lips turned up at the endearing sight; she couldn’t quite help that.</p><p> </p><p>Her husband’s face is blank for a few seconds as he registers the tension in her shoulders, the gaunt look in her eyes and—yes, the most important—the blood soaking her pant leg in an artful line akin to a brushstroke.</p><p> </p><p>Then, astonishment, alarm. Perhaps even—yes. Fear.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Lauren—” </em>he breathes.</p><p> </p><p>She only smiles wanly, a calm she does not feel settling in her bones. “<em> Bonsoir, </em>dear. I’m sorry I’m a bit earlier than expected.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, not waiting for his reply, drowning in the familiar shame of her weakness reflected in his eyes, she speeds up, trudging on until she reaches the door to her own office. Pushing open the door with a hurried thud, she moves and near collapses into her chair, the pressure finally alleviated from her aching leg. She moaned in a small form of relief.</p><p> </p><p>But he’d followed her, his frantic feet hurrying down the hallway and bursting through the door. He looked at her with an almost murderous fury, below which swam utter hurt and panic.</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren, what the <em> hell—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I—“</p><p> </p><p>“No, what the <em> fuck—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>She waved a hand. “<b>I’m fine. Just got a little banged up at work, I’ll live.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>Then, she gestured helplessly to the piles of reports still on her desk. “I have to write up the report for this--they’ll be expecting it by—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut <em> up.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She looked up abruptly at the absolute disgust in his voice, and finds herself staring down a dawning beast, Kieran’s eyes alight with a familiar flame; pride. And hurt.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay there.” He waves a finger at her, and she grimaces, dithering a little under his gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“But--”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Absolutely </em>not.” He whirls on her, all force and command, and she can’t help but obey when he’s this fearful. He must notice the effect he has on her, for he softens a little, the pain returning to his eyes when he looks down at her bleeding leg.</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren Sinclair-White, if I see you’ve even <em> fucking touched </em> that pen and ink I’ll have a knife to your throat. Are we <em> clear?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren grit her teeth. “Crystal, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then <em> stay </em>there.”</p><p> </p><p>And he is gone in a whirlwind of white and the soft scent of bitter paint, and she is left momentarily alone to contemplate. </p><p> </p><p>But not for long; he finds the medical kit and returns to her side quickly, shutting the door with deceptive softness as he makes his way over to her. He kneels between her legs, which she parts so he has better access to her injured one, and he looks up at her from under baleful lashes as he rolls up the cuff of her pants, nearly yelping in alarm as he finally sees the extent of her injury.</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren.” He begins quickly, his fingers deft as they always are, dabbing alcohol on the laceration and causing her to bite her lip to muffle the cry at the sting. </p><p> </p><p>“How on <em> earth—” </em></p><p> </p><p>She sighed tersely. “I <em> told </em>you, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you not?” He looks up at her, his fingers caught on her calf, the broad pads of it seeping warmth into her exhausted bones. She shivered a little at the emotions in his eyes, the hurt and the panic and the pain and the worry—</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just us, here, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s so soft, a stark contrast to the force of his voice and the breaking command to his actions, and she sighs again, this time in resignation, leaning back as she lets him inspect her leg.</p><p> </p><p>“I--” she looked down at him, pursing her lips. </p><p> </p><p>“There was this scuffle.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can see that--”</p><p> </p><p>“An ex-Scythe member.”</p><p> </p><p>He stops dead at this, his fingers frozen on the thin needle and thread he’d been preparing. He looks up at her through knitted brows, a clench of his jaw that forced the urge to smooth it out into her own palms.</p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighed, carding a hand through where her auburn hair was matted to her forehead. She looked warily down at the point of the needle, her eyebrows raising.</p><p> </p><p>“Stitches, doc?”</p><p> </p><p>He barked out an exasperated laugh. “<em>Yes. </em> It <em> wouldn’t </em> have needed it if you didn’t get it into your head to <em> walk </em>here—”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren shook her head. “I didn’t want the cab driver to have a cow and take me to the hospital—”</p><p> </p><p>“Would it have been so egregious?” He looked up at her, the needle poised at her skin, his hand grasping her calf in fingers that, if she concentrated, she could feel the tremors in, could feel the adrenaline still surging through them. She shivered under the warm trails his hands blazed on her skin, the weight of his gaze; it was deep and beholden to so much more than she could ever give to him.</p><p> </p><p>She turned, training her eyes on the window as he tapped the tip of the needle against her leg in warning.</p><p> </p><p>“You know the drill, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, and he starts, and she bites her finger to stifle the waning cry of pain that bubbles up and threatens to bleed from her swollen lip.</p><p> </p><p>As he works the room is silent, the only sound the faint singing of the thread being sewn into her skin, the soft sounds of Kieran’s breathing and the comforting scrapes of his legs against the wooden floorboards as he shifts his fingers on her calf.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she dares to break the glass that is the bridge between them, shattering it with a hoarse, muffled explanation, the one she feels she owes to him, her husband, her partner in all things.</p><p> </p><p>“They were running a stray drug operation in the 2nd.”</p><p> </p><p>His eyelashes flutter, and that is but the only indication that he’s heard her, but she knows him, is attuned to his movements, and knows by the subtle click of his sharp jaw that he is hanging off her every word, attentive as she continues her tale.</p><p> </p><p>“I--we caught them all immediately, but one was faster than the others. He took off out of the back door and I was the only one who reacted.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran chuckles, his fingers tapping steadily on the back of her calf, trailing down her ankle to steady her feet as he ties the stitches and loops the thread. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, officer.”</p><p> </p><p>She can’t help the small smile that flashes on her lips, but it disappears just as quick as she is thrown again into the events of the afternoon and evening, a dull light overturning the gold in her eyes, and he notices, because of course he does. </p><p> </p><p>He thumbs over the ridge of the cut with a delicate finger before drawing his hands higher, pressing to the back of her knee to shift the seat closer. The wheels of her chair roll and he stops it right in front of him, pressing his lips to the bone, a barely-there flutter of gossamer and soft petals, and waits for her to continue. She reaches down, sweeps his bangs back and tucks them behind his ear reverently, so she can view in full the soft spark in the blue pearls of his eyes, the waning fury alight in them, tucked behind his concern and prevailing affection.</p><p> </p><p>“Well--I’m afraid there isn’t much to it after that--I caught up to him, managed to get to him--but not before he did a number on <em> me.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>And in demonstration, she taps the cut on her forehead, shifts her leg under his soft touch. His eyes narrow in understanding, and he rises from his cross-legged position with the intentionally lethargic movements of a crawling predator, shifting onto his knees to press his thumb to the clotted blood on her head. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a concussion?”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head no. “They did check for that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then <em> how </em> on earth did you manage to evade them with <em> this </em>bleeding thing--?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed without mirth, a cold scraping thing like hopeless steel. “I myself didn’t even really notice it, to be quite honest.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She’s gone and done it, she’s gone and placed herself in the hopeless chase again. Over a street, down a set of bricks and two marbles too late, and the adrenaline in her bones seeps into her heart and reminds her of night and not blinding, searing, day. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Farner McClain’s limbs are quick, and even though he is frantically hanging onto a bag filled to the brim with plastic bags and white powder, his swift runner’s feet still manage to carry him far across the alleys and across the cobble like a sprinting cheetah. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But he underestimates the Chief of Police.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Because he does not know who exactly his assailant is, only knowing that a limber woman with shining auburn hair is following his faithful footsteps, he slows like the hare in the game of hubris he and the tortoise play, and even has the audacity to swivel his head around, his locks obstructing his vision as he makes to laugh in the pretty girl’s face. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And then that is his folly, as all things of a lack of humility are, for he slips and tumbles from the rafters of the roof he’s on, because she has taken him down, a knee to the small of his back and the perfect circle of a pistol at his neck as he goes asunder. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But, in the haze of the uncanny confidence that seems to come with drugs, he seems nearly unharmed, and gets up quick, backhanding her forehead and leaving Lauren reeling as she steadies herself. He turns, moves his hand to his pocket— </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> And then Lauren stops dead, for there is something in not only the way his hips twist to slice at her or the cocksure grin he wears, but the way his eyes blaze with </em> something <em> that she once knew and what she has now learned how to classify, and she is thrown back to the night she met her husband, and all had gone blinding white as she’d looked into his eyes and noted only pain. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That was what was in McClain’s eyes now--barely concealed regret.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And that, that is her own folly. She is still caught up in the past, no matter how hard she tries not to be. It’s just different now; it’s directed at another, centers around another person.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She stares at him, the pain and the hurt, and forgets that this is not a night clad in chill and the vestige of purple petals.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No; this is the present, and she is facing down someone who’s goal it is not revenge, but to focus only on the current moment, the animalistic urge to survive.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>And so with no fanfare, and the only fault being that of her own, he cuts her leg, slices desperately, but she doesn’t register it as anything less than a mosquito sting in the wake of her realization that this won’t be as easy</em> <em>as it once had been, six years ago.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When she pins him, cuffs him and names him caught, it’s all she can do to stifle the cry of pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs. “He got to me, plain and simple.”</p><p> </p><p>But Kieran knows that there is something else. She can see his lips turn into a frown, and he trails his fingers down her sternum thoughtfully, almost in worship, the sensation forcing her to choke back a sudden wave of tears, stupid, stubborn things they are.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m surprised, officer. You’re not usually caught off guard like that--except by me, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>And it is a true testament to how shaken he is that he doesn’t crack a single grin at this statement. Her cheeks pale with fright, then immediately flush red with embarrassment. She makes to turn her head to escape his calculating gaze, but he catches her chin in his palms, turns her head until they are face to face, his body between her legs, and they are two puzzle pieces fitting together in perfect synchrony. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>She grits her teeth, looks him dead in the eye. Then, her pride wanes in the light of his soft acceptance, and she sighs in defeat. </p><p> </p><p>“I <em> don’t </em> know what it was-- <em> some</em>thing made me hesitate. And I don’t know <em> why--” </em></p><p> </p><p>She laughs, a watery thing that should freeze over if not for the blazing warmth of his hands on her, comforting her in her solitude. She looks askance at him from behind where her hair frames her face, and smiles, pained, broken slightly like tendrils of shattered glass, perfectly organized like spiders’ webs.</p><p> </p><p>“He--” she grimaces, her lips curving regretfully--”he reminded me of you, Kieran.”</p><p> </p><p>That takes him aback. He lets go of her, staring as he slowly falls back onto his heels, now kneeling by the open medical kit. She looks at him square in the eye, chuckles ruefully and shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it, I suppose.” She smiled. “I wanted to give him the same chances I gave you, because it was really only fair.”</p><p> </p><p>He grits his teeth, pain laced in his brows, and she reaches down with a soft murmur, smoothing them down until there is only the pangs of worry left in them. </p><p> </p><p>“I guess not everyone is as generous as me, then.” He chokes out, looking down fitfully at her leg. Then, he looks up at her, eyes blazing.</p><p> </p><p>“You caught up to him in the end, then?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles. “Of course, you know me, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “Good. I don’t have to hunt him down.”</p><p> </p><p>She frowned, kicking him slightly. “Don’t. I won’t be bailing you out of jail anytime soon if you manage to kill him.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Mon amour </em>, you wound me!”</p><p> </p><p>And for a moment, they are back to their banter, back to the glass houses that define them. </p><p> </p><p>But that breaks, as it does, and Kieran is stormy once more. He rises, towering over her, her blood still smeared on his clothes and blending with the paint on his sleeves, and she wants to laugh at the peppermint hue it creates on his forearms, candy canes and sugar cubes—</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren--don’t do what you just did again.” His teeth stitch together and she winces at the abject hurt in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>What </em>were you planning to do? Not tell me?”</p><p> </p><p>She grimaced. “I--”</p><p> </p><p>“Because that doesn’t <em> fucking </em>help me any more, officer!”</p><p> </p><p>She waves a hand in front of her, making to protest, but then realizes the fruitlessness of the fight. </p><p> </p><p>She drops her fingers, spreading them out in front of her and noting the pallid color, like milk white sheets and dove feathers, purple like scathing violets.</p><p> </p><p>“I just didn’t want you to see me like this.” She grimaced. “I know how stressed you’ve been recently and I couldn’t <em> bear--” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Lauren.” </em>His voice stops her, and she looks up at him from under her lashes. He stands before her like a dark waif, his eyes never leaving hers, his lips curved in a slight sneer.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you think it would hurt me <em> infinitely </em> more if I’d found you bleeding out here? Don’t you <em> think?” </em></p><p> </p><p>He grit his teeth, and she could see the panic wearing down to thin, no doubt processing the horrific image of what that would entail, her body slumped in the sleep of blood letting and red pooling on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded solemnly, tears threatening her eyelids. “I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>He purses his lips. “From now on don’t try and weather these battles yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles up at him at that.</p><p> </p><p>”Partners in crime, then?”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, reaching forward and taking her hand in his, rubbing the finger where a ring is looped, caught tight in the place where she never lets it go. “More than that, now, I’m afraid.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods then, her eyes alight with love and adoration and all things rosy. “Alright. I’ll tell you from now on.”</p><p> </p><p>She eyes him keenly. “And you know the favor is duly returned?”</p><p> </p><p>He stops and looks at her, then chuckles ruefully, threading a hand through her hair and reaching down to kiss her eyelids. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, he straightens, packing up the medical kit and turning to her with a calculating expression. </p><p> </p><p>“I absolutely forbid you from working.”</p><p> </p><p>“I--”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No. </em>You’re not to lift a finger.” </p><p> </p><p>She sighs, burying her face in her fingers. “I must have spilled so much blood on the floor--”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get it.”</p><p> </p><p>“No--just let Lana handle it, I’m sure--”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah--but,” and he looks back at her with something she cannot place. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure that wouldn’t be right.”</p><p> </p><p>“What--?”</p><p> </p><p>“She doesn’t really know how to get bloodstains out of a carpet,” he says, sighing. She tightens her lips at this; she knows and he knows. </p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other in silence for a few moments. Then, he cocks his head in thought, snapping his fingers, looking at her softly and speaking just as so.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m in the middle of a painting--you could come sit with me, if you’d like? Or I can take you to bed and force you to sleep—”</p><p> </p><p>“The former sounds lovely,” she says, all smiles. “I’d like that.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, a playful light in his face that relieves her to see. “It’s settled then, officer!”</p><p> </p><p>She makes to rise on her own feet, but he tuts, bending down and sweeping her with ease. She yelps, instinctively drawing her arms up around his broad shoulders, her lips settling at the crook of his neck and grazing his collarbone. He laughs as she pounds his chest in indignance with weak, mocking knuckles.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“If you think I’m letting you walk with that foot you’ve got something else coming, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine, fine.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s only a short ways down to his studio, but she nestles into him and closes her eyes as if to fall into a fitful sleep, inhaling the comforting scent of poppies and mint and paint thinner that clings to him, a fragrance she’ll never get tired of. </p><p> </p><p>He toes open the door with his feet, moving to set her down on one side of the long bench he works on. A painting comes into hazy view: a half-finished oil depiction of a vase of yarrow blooms, the complete and real version on the right. The picture is scarily accurate, tinged with faint yellows and whites and leaving the viewer awestruck by its accuracy, the feeling it invokes. She smiles at this, pride lacing through her features.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran mumbles to himself as he sifts through paint and cups of thinner, gesturing to her with a bowl filled with a sullied version of the latter.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll settle up and be back shortly.” He points an accusatory finger, his eyes narrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Don’t </em>move.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, I know, mother. <em> I will heed your wishes.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He smiles, kissing her forehead lightly before leaving in a breeze of poppies and paint. She settles back against the back of the bench, her eyes on the yarrow but her mind elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Chief, your head--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just let me have a few words with him, can I?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The reporting officer balks, her gaze no doubt trained on the blood seeping from her Chief’s head and the weary set to her shoulders, but not one to displease the harpy that is her boss, she steps aside, allowing Lauren into the room with the one who caused the bruises and the aches and the fresh wounds. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He sits like a defeated man, hair falling in front of a red-eyed face, and Lauren is once again brought swiftly into the past. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She sits across from him, and he looks up at her from under a worn and weary brow. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Back to taunt me?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She shakes her head, crossing her legs and barely managing to tamp down the hiss of pain as her broken skin shifts.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No, McClain. I’m not--I don’t think I need to.” Her eyes open, and she knows that his sharp movement backwards is because there’s a glint in her golden eyes that makes him deathly afraid of her.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There always seems to be something akin to that sort. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m here to ask you a question.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He laughs, a harsh bark that sounds like a rabid dog rather than a man. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What is that? I’ve already been questioned enough--what could you possibly have for me, woman?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She purses her lips, doesn’t say anything. So; he still doesn’t know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you regret what you did?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He stops, looks at her in surprise. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What--?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You sold drugs to underage orphans and recruited them in your work. You’ll be tried for those crimes, there’s no doubting that--but I want to know if you regret what you did. If you’d be willing to change.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He stares at her, the cogs in his mind turning. She can see the curve of his sharp teeth, like canine incisors, nothing like the devilish smirk she knows, his eyes nothing nice in the dank light of the holding room. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He draws himself up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>“Yes. I regret everything.”</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s funny. She wants to laugh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fine then.” She rises, shrugging her coat over her shoulders. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wait--who--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m afraid, Monsieur,” she turns back to him, and her eyes are colder than frost, “that you’ve done yourself no favors with the Chief of Police.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His face registers what she’s just said, but no matter how many pleas bleat from his lips like a broken toy, she doesn’t give him her time. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She remembers how when the devil lied to her about being regretful, the fact that he’d dared to lie to her had hurt somehow more than the import of the truth itself. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s the same here, and she finds that though she cannot see the devil she loves in others anymore, she knows that their creed will never change. They are all liars one way or another. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When she snaps back to it is to the sound of a closing door, the shuffling of feet and the sight of the one devil she has allowed into her bed and her life, her husband, setting down a new glass of paint thinner and handing her a croissant smeared with blackberry compote, which she takes in grateful fingers. His are notably washed of her blood, and that calms her somewhat.</p><p> </p><p>“You look like a ghost. Eat.”</p><p> </p><p>She bites into the pastry harshly, chewing in contempt. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, subordinate. You are too kind to compliment your wife so.”</p><p> </p><p>“I try.”</p><p> </p><p>He turns to her as he takes up his brush again, dabbing white onto it in practiced efficiency. “You’ll tell me if you need anything.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a question. She nods, leaning back into the pillows as she hums thoughtfully though a mouthful of buttery bread.</p><p> </p><p>Then, they settle into comfortable silence, their breaths the only sound aside from the scrapes of canvas and the dabs of liquid as Kieran cleans out the brush after every other stroke. She focuses on his painting to drown out the dull throbbing pain from the stitches and the cut on her head.</p><p> </p><p>She can’t quite follow his process; she is no artist, and doesn’t understand the way of moving. It’s not logical, like a perfectly formed battle plan; no, it is chaotic and wild, snap decisions and unfounded judgement defining most of it. </p><p> </p><p>And yet somehow, after a span of time of which she cannot accurately place, she finds herself staring at a perfectly formed yarrow blossom, the seemingly aimless brushstrokes colliding and creating the perfect vision of reality.</p><p> </p><p>It takes all in her not to audibly gasp in awe at the thing, instead biting her lip in astonishment.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “How do you do it?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t quite meant to breathe it out, but it comes before her fingers can stifle it. He turns to her in surprise for a moment, and she looks at him sheepishly before elaborating.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean.” She leans forward. “How on earth do you manage to do that? I could never!”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles then, looking back consideringly at the thing he’s just crafted, then reaching out an arm to her in beckoning command.</p><p> </p><p>“Come over here.”</p><p> </p><p>She hesitates, but scoots over on the bench until they are side by side, and to her mild shock he folds her in his arms, seating her a little ways in front of him, her back to his chest and side pressed against him. He takes her fingers in his broad palm, forcing the end of a paint brush loaded with creamy white into her loose, grasping ones.</p><p> </p><p>Then, his voice is at her ear, and she can’t suppress the slight shiver as his breath ghosts over her neck as he instructs her.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not too hard. You just have to commit to it.” He starts to draw the hand holding her up, but she resits, protesting.</p><p> </p><p>“No—I’ll ruin it, Kieran. I couldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs. “You wouldn’t, don’t worry! Besides, if I find it truly offending to my vision I can always paint over it.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren deadpans, huffing. “You are <em>too </em>encouraging, <em> Professeur </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, turning back to the canvas and hesitating, she takes the leap, pressing the bristles against the stretched board, watching as the pigment bleeds onto the rough material, white smearing onto the blush-pink background. </p><p> </p><p>She reels backward as though electrocuted, and Kieran only chuckles at her reticence, his loving hold on her waist tightening. </p><p> </p><p>“Go on!”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, leaps again, stroking wildly and trying to mimic the gentle studs of the center pistils, the gentle circle of the petals.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not looking at your subject.”</p><p> </p><p>His chastizement stops her, and when she turns to look at him in a question he takes her chin in his fingers, swiveling her head to look at the vase of yarrow he’d been referencing.</p><p> </p><p>“If you don’t look at your reference, then you’re going from memory alone, and that won’t get you anywhere.”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded in understanding, turning back to the board and eyeing the flower critically. Then, she began again, taking up more paint the way she’d seen him do it, a yarrow blooming on the side of the page. She snuck glances at the vase every now and then, finding it indeed helpful to see the way the petals curved, the exact way the light of the studio fell and cast delicious shadows and beams of light on the flowers.</p><p> </p><p>When she leans back again to survey the work, she finds herself not too displeased with the result. When she looks backward to gauge his reaction, she finds him looking fondly at the little thing his wife had painted.</p><p> </p><p>“Not too bad, officer.” He smiled at her, reached up and swiped a bit of paint from her cheek, and took the brush from her fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not as good as yours, I’m afraid.” She lamented, burrowing further into his chest. He laughed, dipping the brush in thinner before shaking it out slightly, moving to fix where ivory had splattered on the corner of the canvas.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s because I’m practiced. You’d get there too, one day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ahh, I’ll stick to my pistols, I think.” She tucked her chin into his sternum, sighing as his collar shifted with his practiced movements. She could feel, then, the rumble straight from his core, warmth filling her chest as he laughed, a rasp that made her feel completely at peace.</p><p> </p><p>“That you should, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, after a few more moments of silence in which he stares at the canvas unseeingly, his grip on her tightens, and she feels a new sensation, his lips in her hair, his nose charting the scent of honey and fire tinged with the residual tang of iron.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you’re alright, <em> mon coeur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>That desperate whisper, it nearly makes her weep again, and she reaches a lethargic hand up to cup his jaw, slide her knuckles against his cheek in comfort. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry that I didn’t come to you immediately.”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “I’ll let it go for now--but not again, you understand?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, tilting her head back to let him rain kisses at the juncture of her neck, the paintbrush forgotten in his fingers as he lavishes her with his artist’s focus. </p><p> </p><p>“That look in your eyes you get when you look at me—I don’t want it to fade.” She admits it, and he pauses torturously to listen. </p><p> </p><p>“When I’m pained you’re pained, and I don’t want to see that.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> know </em>me.” He says it to her skin, and she nearly jerks with the pleasurable jolt it sends shooting through her limbs. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the same for me. So don’t deny me the chance to make your pain better.” He looks at her from under his bangs. </p><p> </p><p>“Deal, officer?”</p><p> </p><p>She considers her husband. Then, concedes to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal. I’ll learn to lean on you, <em> mon bonheur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>And he pauses again, his breath dangerously close to her ear, a ghost, a wisp, a waif that she’ll never stop meeting as an equal.</p><p> </p><p>“As I you, Lauren.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>BHSGSIHIHIS I AM JUST BIG SOFT SORRY</p><p>I promised some h/c here you go I’ll feed you today :&gt;</p><p>ALSO: THANK YOU FOR NEARLY 100 KUDOS :D you make your Peachie SO happy everyday, loves. Ily all &lt;3 </p><p>Comments/kudos are yarrow blossoms &lt;3</p><p>Go check out my insta -&gt; @artsofisha :D<br/>Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Zinnias</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Zinnias: thinking of you; sentimentality</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<em>Look </em> , all I'm saying is that he's <em> exceedingly </em>easy on the eyes—"</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Anne," </em>Freya implores, reaching out a Mary-Jane clad foot to kick at her friend's heels, attempting to trip her in retribution.</p><p> </p><p>"What—?!"</p><p> </p><p>"I will literally <em> pay </em>you to shut up."</p><p> </p><p>"Ooh—how much exactly? Can I have that lip powder you always keep locked away in that drawer of yours instead?"</p><p> </p><p>"<em> Now— </em>let's not get drastic."</p><p> </p><p>The two schoolgirls walked down the long, winding entrance corridor of their university, passing many students on their way to different classes. In turn, the two friends were on their way to their own trajectory, their skirts perfectly ironed and shoes clacking a clockwork rhythm on the tiled floor.</p><p> </p><p>Freya Anderson was a petite, waifish girl of twenty, although she liked to posit that she was “only off the cusp of nineteen.” Attending the university for her graduate studies, she was buoyed by the fact that her presence here was only required for another half a year. Her demeanor was generally placid and calm, composed and reserved, with the rare exceptions being when she was engrossed in a painting; then, her eyes would light with a slight spark of excitement, and her smile would beam with enough light to rival a blazing flame.</p><p> </p><p>Her friend since their girlhood, Anne Clemont was entirely the opposite in almost every way. Tall, gangly limbs supported a stick-like frame, and her sharp, keen ears sniffed out any tidbit of information worth her interest. She was studying economics, which was a point of regular contention due to her utter lack of interest in it. So, ever the rebellious and rambunctious, she'd taken the major up as a front for her parents, and taken every class deemed "unprofitable" behind the scenes that she could.</p><p> </p><p>Thus, they shared an art class together in the afternoons, and it was the one thing both of them looked forward to the most.</p><p> </p><p>Even if it was appearing to be for different reasons.</p><p> </p><p><em>"I </em>heard a rumour that he used to be a police officer for the APD.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya shrugged as they rounded a corner, adjusting her hold on her portfolio case as she nudged past various students, all engrossed in getting to their own destinations, in their own lilting conversations.</p><p> </p><p>“Why on earth would he come <em> here,</em> then? To be an art teacher?”</p><p> </p><p>Anne shook her head noncommittally, tossing strands of ginger hair over her shoulder as she grinned slyly down at her friend.</p><p> </p><p>“Just means he’s one of <em> those—“ </em> she spread her fingers—“<em>soul searching </em>types, you know? Someone caged by his inhibitions—“</p><p> </p><p>“Can you not do this when I’m already off the heels of <em> Madame </em> Solon’s lecture?” Freya grouched, pouting. “I’ve had enough flowery language to last me three <em> centuries—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you at least a <em> little </em>bit interested, Freya?” Anne implored, twisting to beam at her friend, quirking an eyebrow as they passed a group of upperclassmen boys, laughing at the drab nature of another’s skirts, pointing fingers and sharing mocking smirks like gifts to each other.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean--<em> come on. </em> The mystery! The intrigue! We still don’t know too much about him, and we’ve had him for a whole year! And he’s not all that older than <em> us, </em>anyhow.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya sighed, waving a hand. “I <em> suppose— </em> but he’s our professor, in the end! I only hope you know what you’re getting into by being <em> too </em>curious—“ </p><p> </p><p>She whirled on her. “He has a <em> ring </em>on his finger, for God’s sake—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh come off it—“ Anne scoffed. “You know it’s not like <em> that. </em> I’m only being conversational. You should hear some of the upperclassmen girls talk...“</p><p> </p><p>“Right. I’m only looking out for you, you know that.” Freya turned to her friend, who laughed fondly.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Frey. I’ve got a head about me, rest assured!”</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes I wonder…” she grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!”</p><p> </p><p>They passed into the classroom, still bickering, only to stop and mellow their tune to match the typical quiet, relaxed atmosphere of Professeur White’s studio.</p><p> </p><p>Bright afternoon light filtered in like fractals from the large windows, whose panes had been propped open to allow the soft breeze through. It was barely on the wisps of a late spring, and the scent of the town outside and the light bustle of street goers allowed for a peaceful lull in the large room. It smelled like fresh paint and poppies, and was clean in only the way an artist’s workspace could ever be, which was to be described as pleasantly disorganized.</p><p> </p><p>The man in question looked up from his position at the front desk to regard them with a warm smile in greeting. He had on a soft blue blazer over a white undershirt, his hair in a neat braid, and a smooth white ribbon falling over his shoulders. He was all angles and sharp lines, like a charcoal painting brushed at the edges, and Freya could see what the all fuss was about, then. Shrouded in a chiaroscuro of light, he looked delightfully human, like a painting come to life in blue and black color.</p><p> </p><p>He closed his eyes in demure acknowledgement.</p><p> </p><p>“Good afternoon, the both of you.” He smiled softly. They bowed politely, muttering their own replies before shuffling to their seats, sitting amongst pads of paper and charcoal smudges on tables.</p><p> </p><p>As more students filtered in lazily, Freya found herself opening a blank page in her sketchbook, staring at the small graphite fingerprints on it with slight distaste and apprehension. </p><p> </p><p>There was always that mild trepidation one got looking at a slate wiped clean, of something one can do nothing with but ruin irreversibly, stain and mark as you please. There was some sort of fear, that came with that kind of possessive freedom.</p><p> </p><p>She looked up and leveled her eyes forward, scanning the front of the room for a hint of what was to come today. The chalkboard had slight figures drawn in grainy white streaks, one point perspectives, two, amongst little notes only an ant could read, messy and scrawling. </p><p> </p><p>Eyes flitting to the top of the desk, she noticed papers strewn about like autumn leaves, a couple trinkets resting on the corners: a red leather-bound sketchbook, a crystalline paperweight, sticks of chalk, a single apple, somehow not moth eaten, and, curiously, a pair of half-moon glasses hooked tauntingly on the rim of a mug, unused.</p><p> </p><p>Anne leaned down from her seat above Freya’s, nodding over to where she was looking. </p><p> </p><p>“Why does he have those?” She whispered conspiratorially. “He doesn’t use them, does he?”</p><p> </p><p>Freya sighed. “My shoulders are getting tired from shrugging, Anne—I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne huffed, retreating tactfully. Freya smiled wanly, and as the last of her classmates took their seats and Professor White rose to swing the door closed, her eyes zeroed in on the newcomer to the set of objects on the desk: a single, thin vase, curvy and lithe, in which a single Zinnia flower bloomed, soft reds and pinks layered like patches of feathers around a yellow center.</p><p> </p><p>“Good afternoon, class.” Professor White intoned, striding to the center of the room and clapping his hands. The following chorus of ‘good afternoon’ produced a delicate smile on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone doing alright today?” </p><p> </p><p>His voice was gentle, calming, and yet low, deep, timorous. It washed over the room and made everyone feel at ease; Freya supposed that <em> that </em>was also a point of contention amongst his admirers.</p><p> </p><p>“The weather’s been drab, lately. I’m glad it’s looking up…” he muttered softly, glancing out the window briefly before turning back to regard his students.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint some of you today—“ he leaned forward, palms flat on his desk—</p><p> </p><p>“I have to introduce some new projects.”</p><p> </p><p>The room, mixed with piqued interest and barely-concealed apprehension, let out a collective murmur of acknowledgement. He chuckled, sitting back on his haunches.</p><p> </p><p>“As you all know the semester is drawing to a close—and the board is going to start reviewing portfolios for job profiles.” He tilted his head. “So we work to build up a good repertoire the last few months of the school year.”</p><p> </p><p>Turning a little, he brought his fingers up to absently fiddle with a Zinnia petal, his eyes thoughtful, before straightening up again.</p><p> </p><p>“A lot of the things you can put in will be things we’ve worked on throughout the year. But the reviewers like to see pieces that embody specific aspects and elements of mediums and expression, and that is what I will work towards getting for all of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya once again looked down at her blank sketchbook page, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. She was still unsure as to what she wanted to do with the fine arts studies she’d have to fall back on. After all, her mother had always told her that while art was the supplement to life, it shouldn’t<em> become </em> it, for fear of ruining all it means. And her father had—</p><p> </p><p>She stopped.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. Don’t think of that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head, grit her teeth and tuned back in to what Professeur White was saying, his voice smooth like a dash of cream, lilting like honey.</p><p> </p><p>“The first task I have for you regards this—“ he indicated the vase with the single Zinnia.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing too drastic; just make a simple still life rendition. It doesn’t have to be realistic,” he looked up, “but keep in mind that for this one, they’ll be studying your understanding of <em> color. </em> It <em> does </em>have to embody some principle we’ve learned thus far regarding color theory and how to create an effectively executed painting.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “That’s clear enough?”</p><p> </p><p>They all nodded in turn. Some of the students leant forward to rest their heads in their palms; not out of boredom, however, but in a show of mild attention.</p><p> </p><p>“The second thing—“ he smiled—“is a bit more abstract.”</p><p> </p><p>“We have to do an abstract painting?” One of the boys in the front asked with a raised hand, his expression skeptical, his other palm playing with a single pastel stick absently, smearing cardamom yellow down his thick fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“No, Colin.” Professor White shook his head, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Rest assured—I know your disdain for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> That’s good.” </em>Colin muttered, sighing in relief.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I was speaking more in a subject sense.” He looked round, taking note of all their curious expressions before leaning back, so he was resting languidly against the wood grain of his desk. </p><p> </p><p>“Your second task is to create a picture capturing the one thing in the world that makes you happiest.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, holding up a finger. “It can be anything you like—with any medium you choose. But what I want to see is some depth of emotion—<em> show </em> me what you love, so that you don’t have to <em> tell </em>me when you write your dissertations.”</p><p> </p><p>The boy next to Colin raised his hand, this time. “Does it have to be a person? Or can it be an object, too?”</p><p> </p><p>Professor White shook his head, still smiling. “It can be <em> anything </em>that makes you happy, James. That means a person, a place, a thing—“</p><p> </p><p>He cocked his head, considering. “Or even, I suppose, just a <em> feeling. </em>If you were particularly confident you could try and model something more ephemeral, something that has no physical form--but a concept.”</p><p> </p><p>He winked at Colin. “<em> That </em>would be truly abstract, no?”</p><p> </p><p>Colin blushed, nodding in favor of speech. </p><p> </p><p>Something about being called on by their professor made people feel tongue tied, like there were things they could say to him but they wouldn’t come to their lips. It was an odd feeling; somehow, though, it was captivating, intriguing, made you want him to open up a bit more, to learn from him, all his cordoned knowledge and secrets.</p><p> </p><p>“If it helps you to know, I’ll also be participating in the exercise.” He smiled ruefully. “<em> My </em>portfolio is due for an upgrade too, I would think.”</p><p> </p><p>“You still get your portfolio renewed, <em> Professeur?” </em>Anne asked incredulously.</p><p> </p><p>He laughed. “Well. They have to make sure we’re still kicking, at some point!” </p><p> </p><p>A wave of laughter echoed softly, before he clapped his hands. “<em> Allons! </em>You’ll have the whole time to work.”</p><p> </p><p>He rounded the corner of his desk, sinking down onto his chair in a single fluid movement. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be here for any questions—as always, please do not hesitate to ask me anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Yes </em> , <em> Professeur” </em></p><p> </p><p>And with that, the steady choir song of pencil scratches, rolling paint caps, and faint bristle strokes began with a fervor, all the student’s eyes either trained on the Zinnia in front of them, or down at their own blank pages, their foreheads creased in the quest for the thing that made them the most happy in life.</p><p> </p><p>Freya elected to tackle the Zinnia first, grabbing a canvas and a palette, dotting the wood with dollops of scarlet and rose, pure white as well. Then, frowning, she added a little green, too.</p><p> </p><p>It had been drilled in with a steady pick, the importance of looking at your reference when drawing. That even if it was just for form, and not technical things such as light and detailed shape, looking constantly made sure you were not reaching blindly for the memory of a thing rather than studying how it bloomed in truth, in rendered clarity. </p><p> </p><p>So with that, Freya found her eyes dutifully flicking between the vase and her canvas, like a roll of picture film, a book page lifted over and over again. She took in the soft drape of the petals like perfect thumbprints, the beads of pollen in the center, the way the blossom fell like waves of butter, the stem curving gracefully as the vase held it in its loving cavern. It began to take slight form on the brittle board, red and green mixed in an embrace, forming a perfect mid tone of holly bough-grey.</p><p> </p><p>Then, on one of her eyes’ many trips to the front, she found herself staring past the Zinnia, falling on her Professor, his image hazy in focus, then suddenly made clear.</p><p> </p><p>He sat looking down at a page in his sketchbook, a delicate, pensive frown on his lips and fingers tapping a slight, thoughtful rhythm with the end of his pencil. Then, suddenly, he smiled, a thrilling, wonderful smile, and began.</p><p> </p><p>She watched in admiration as his fingers curved around the pencil in a perfect motion, his focus directed solely on the lines he pressed into the page. He moved his entire arm rather than his wrists, the sloping movement marking gesture and position with deft, confident strokes. </p><p> </p><p>But what was most curious was his expression; his mouth curved with what could only be described as the utmost fondness, his eyes reflected a soft shade of sky, and he looked altogether—</p><p> </p><p>Well—happy.</p><p> </p><p>Freya turned her attention back bashfully, a little embarrassed to have intruded on such a moment, though in all practicality it wasn’t much of an intrusion. It still felt like she had seen a side to her normally placid and cocksure professor that she shouldn’t have, spied on him when he was at his most vulnerable.</p><p> </p><p>But Anne, of course, did not seem to have the same reservations. She leaned down once more, her voice excitable as she hushed her breath.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Wonder what he’s drawing—he’s so at peace!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded. “I agree—but it’s private, still.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm.” She frowned. “Not if he has to show it to the board, in the end.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya tapped the end of her paintbrush against the canvas. “I suppose that’s true.”</p><p> </p><p>Anne turned to her in a question. “What were you planning to do?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“For the painting. What makes you happy?”</p><p> </p><p>Freya frowned, considering.</p><p> </p><p>Lots of things did, she supposed. Painting—but that couldn’t exactly be paint<em>ed. </em>That only left—</p><p> </p><p>Well—</p><p> </p><p>What did that leave?</p><p> </p><p>She bit her lip, brows drawing inward. Anne, ever perceptive, her instincts like an eagle, frowned in concern.</p><p> </p><p>“Freya—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. I just—“ she looked down balefully at the barely-there Zinnia on her canvas.</p><p> </p><p>“—I haven’t exactly...had many things to be happy about, lately.”</p><p> </p><p>The statement hung coldly in the air, like frost congealing on pale, dead grass in winter. </p><p> </p><p>Then, Anne snaked an arm around her friend’s shoulders, just as much as she could considering their positions, and hugged her tight, squeezing briefly before returning to her own work.</p><p> </p><p>“Freya. I’m sure you’ll think of something, really.” She looked at her. “You know I’m always—“</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” She smiled. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>When she looked back at the vase, one of the boys from the back had stepped to the front of the room, his eyes inquiring. Professeur White looked up, seemingly startled from his haze of calm focus.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you need something, Evan?”</p><p> </p><p>Evan nodded slightly, embarrassed. He held out the paper he’d been working on, and Freya could see paint splattered all the way up to his shoulders, the scarlet forming scratches on his forearms and soft yellows dotting his skin like bruises.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—having some difficulty with the color, here.” He pointed, abashed.</p><p> </p><p>Professeur White seemed to consider, then regarded Evan steadily, his gaze open.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you what—try some green, in here.” He pointed to a spot on the page.</p><p> </p><p>“Green?” He looked skeptical.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes—look at how they mix on the actual flower, here—“</p><p> </p><p>His voice began to give him steady advice, and Evan listened with rapt attention to the logic, the gestures as he pointed out areas of the flower.</p><p> </p><p>That was, until his eyes wandered briefly, drifted downward. It was just before he made to go, and he did a double take before reeling back.</p><p> </p><p>“Who are you drawing, <em> Professeur?” </em></p><p> </p><p>The question was asked loudly, as Evan was known to be a rather loud person. So, it was in effect that the entire class heard his inquiry. They all turned to the front, where Professor White was looking rather abashed.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s for--who makes you happy?” He looked eager, blushing.</p><p> </p><p>Professeur White, too, blushed--but for a different reason. “I--ah. You shouldn’t really be asking, should you, Evan?”</p><p> </p><p>Evan balked. “No--no I suppose I shouldn’t have--”</p><p> </p><p>But the older man waved a hand, laughing slightly at the boy’s frantic nature. “It’s alright--I don’t blame you.”</p><p> </p><p>Evan still had his eyes cast down at the picture, what contents unbeknownst to the rest present. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he scrutinized it carefully. Professeur White raised an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“If it’s not a good likeness--”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh not <em> at all!” </em>He spluttered. “No, no, on the contrary, it’s wonderful--lively. Beautiful. I just--”</p><p> </p><p>He frowned again. “I can’t help but think--she looks familiar. Somehow.”</p><p> </p><p>Professeur White sighed, looking down at the page. Then, that smile that Freya had noted took root again. It spread slowly like raindrops down glass, and his rough eyes softened, melted like butter.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s--well.” He rubbed the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s my wife, Evan.”</p><p> </p><p>A series of coos echoed throughout the room, mainly from the girls. Evan looked startled, then pleasantly happy. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh! That’s nice, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, <em> men.” </em>Anne lamented to Freya. </p><p> </p><p><em> “‘That’s nice, I guess.’ </em>Could have said something better!”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm.” Freya hummed thoughtfully. “Like what? Should he have squealed about how adorable it is--?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no.” Anne frowned. “Yes--I guess that would be out of character.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s sweet, <em> Professeur.” </em>Colin piped up, smiling lightly. “That you drew your wife.”</p><p> </p><p>Professor White nodded slightly, a little half-smile on his lips. “I guess it could be.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know if <em> I </em>were to ask my parents, I don’t think they would draw each other.” He mumbled, his face keen.</p><p> </p><p>Freya felt slightly sullen, and she turned to look pointedly at the little petal she’d been trying to perfect, as if it had personally offended her in some way. </p><p> </p><p>“No--but I still think--” Evan persisted, his head cocked--”that I’ve seen her somewhere before.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked down thoughtfully. </p><p> </p><p>“Her name’s Lauren.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren?” Evan frowned. “Now where--?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Did someone call for me?” </em></p><p> </p><p>A soft, feminine voice came from the now open doorway, and all in the room turned to regard the newcomer, the sudden stranger.</p><p> </p><p>She was beautiful, and that was all anybody could conclude about it. </p><p> </p><p>It was a muted kind of beauty--but regal, poised in the way that didn’t blind you to it, but made you want to look at it more and more, endlessly, finding more things as you went. Her long auburn hair fell in straight waterfalls down to her shoulders, and she wore a long brown peacoat, a hat clutched lightly in her fingers, a barely-concealed emblem glinting from where the light could still hit it.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes, though--they were a deep, pensive aureate, twin fires that searched the room like a judge to his gavel, equalizing in all things. The way she stood, the way she’d entered; it exuded power and confidence.</p><p> </p><p>Professor White straightened in his seat, his eyes wide in surprise. Evan’s own eyes completed several rounds between the paper down in front of him and the woman in the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>Then suddenly, he lit up, and made for a startled ejaculation. Before he could, Professeur White stood, a hand quelling the young boy with a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Chief Sincalir.” He said, his voice quiet with shock and fascination. </p><p> </p><p>The woman smiled. “<em> Professeur White.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Stifled murmurs swept through the class like a wave. Hushed whispers of <em> Chief Sinclair, Chief Sinclair, The Chief of Police, here--? </em></p><p> </p><p>Anne pitched forward, excited and keen on the other woman. “<em> Chief Sinclair! Here! Wonder why.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Freya now knew from where she recognized her. So. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Chief of Police. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She hid a tremble beneath a hurried brushstroke, smearing red onto the canvas where it shouldn’t be. She groaned in frustration.</p><p> </p><p>And then, Professor White’s eyes took on a quality Freya hadn’t yet seen. It was soft and revertent, keen and cunning all at once, a fruitful dichotomy painted in plaster.</p><p> </p><p>“This is a surprise,” he said, straightening his sleeves, dusting graphite off his fingers before looking back at her, smiling broadly, impishly. </p><p> </p><p>“To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this a visit for yours truly?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled winningly, shaking her head slightly. “Don’t worry, <em> Professeur. </em>I’m not here to arrest you, unfortunately, an honor as that would be.”</p><p> </p><p>He cocked his head. “Quite. So then--?”</p><p> </p><p>And it was then that her face turned grave, and she crossed her arms.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m actually here for a student of yours…” she said, her voice apologetic, almost regretful.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p> </p><p>And she turned, her eyes scanning the rows of students. </p><p> </p><p>“A--<em> Mademoiselle </em>Anderson? Is she here?”</p><p> </p><p>Freya’s blood ran cold. Instantly she knew the purpose, the reason. A ball of lead settled in her stomach. </p><p> </p><p>As all eyes turned to her, she stood up hesitantly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That would be me, Madame.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lauren nodded sadly, beckoning with a finger. “I’m sorry about this. But I need you to--”</p><p> </p><p>“Is something the matter?” Professor White asked, concern lacing his tone. Chief Sinclair looked at him keenly.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything is fine--there’s no need to worry. But you might want to come out, too.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded reluctantly, turning back to his students with a commanding tone.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. I’ll be outside for a bit. Please, continue working.” </p><p> </p><p>He pointed a finger. “And if I hear <em> anything </em>that indicates that you’re not working from this room I’m marking you all down three marks, understood?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oui, Professeur.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With that, Freya marched out of the room, like a witch sent to hang, all the while ignoring the pointed and curious looks from her peers. Anne shot her a look of alarm, but she merely smiled thinly and walked out the door, meeting her Professor and the Chief head on.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran turned to Lauren. “Is everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, nodding slightly. “That all depends.”</p><p> </p><p>She turned to Freya, and she was startled to find that up close, her eyes were very kind. From afar they had looked sharp, cunning, keen, and they were still all those things now, but something in them was dulled when she looked at the young girl in sympathy.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you might have an idea of what--”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s about my father, isn’t it.” Freya said, her eyes downcast and arms crossed.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, tense. “Yes, I’m afraid.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked up belligerently. “Are they going to let him go?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren paused, looking uncomfortable, disquieted. Her voice softened. </p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m sorry, <em> Mademoiselle.” </em></p><p> </p><p>But to her apparent surprise, Freya nodded decisively, her jaw set in determination.</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren paused, then her eyebrows quirked. She looked at her curiously before continuing.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid it’s no doubt that your father is guilty--of the robberies.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya sighed. “I know. My mother knows. Everyone knows, I--”</p><p> </p><p>“Now.” She placed a hand on her shoulder. “Please. Calm yourself. Everything will be alright. We’ll handle this in such a manner where you wouldn't need to embarrass yourself. “</p><p> </p><p>Her tone was reassuring, quiet, but Freya still felt uneasy. She wrung her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to have to testify, aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, her tone laced with regret. “Yes, I’m sorry. That’s why I pulled you out, see--”</p><p> </p><p>And at this she turned to Kieran, her gaze steady.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s inescapable that we can move the dates of the trial any further--so I’m afraid your testifying is going to cut a little bit into your day. I’ve already spoken to your mother--she wasn’t too happy, but she understands.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya sighed, nodding a little. “I understand as well, Chief Sinclair.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren bowed a little, her hair sweeping in front of her face in crimson waves. Freya had the urge to take a paintbrush and mix the color--it was a burnished shade, bleeding like wine down the curve of her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“This is unfortunate business, and I <em>am </em>truly sorry. I suggest you communicate with your Professor on things that can be done regarding your work--”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll handle everything, Freya.” Kieran cut in, his voice reassuring and appealing. He looked at her calmly, his face open and inviting, sympathetic. </p><p> </p><p>“I understand completely. You can take the time off as needed--I am willing to be flexible.” And then he smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll move the due date for your project accordingly.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya looked at him, feeling gratitude flood in her veins. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you <em> so </em> much, <em> Professeur, </em>that--”</p><p> </p><p>But he merely waved a hand, smiling warmly. “Think nothing of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Bowing a little, she straightened, setting her spine and squaring her shoulders, a bit like a fox preparing for the hunt.</p><p> </p><p>“When do I have to start?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren tilted her head, considering. “The first trial where you would be needed would be on Monday, next week. I can give you a better schedule after that. Your mother will also be informed.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked at the two adults as they looked in turn at each other, communicating in some silent language she could not even strain to hear. She was suddenly struck with a pang of what she could only call intimidation. For the way they stood, the way their bodies were angled, not quite touching but something unspoken between them; it was rather frightening.</p><p> </p><p>This must have registered palpably on her face, for when they turned back to her Kieran’s face looked concerned.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything alright, Freya?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh!” She snapped back. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” I’ll--just.” And she threw a finger back to the door. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran nodded. “Go on.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hope to see you well on Monday.” Lauren called, her hand gentle on her shoulder. “Please tell me if you need anything from us; we’d be happy to see what we can come up with.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded, her lip caught in between her teeth. “Thank you, again. I’m sorry it has to come to this.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren shook her head ruefully, helplessly. “Sometimes these things happen, Freya. I’m--”</p><p> </p><p><b>“It’s alright.” </b>She said, turning abruptly and retreating back into the classroom, leaving the two adults alone in the hallway together.</p><p> </p><p>She returned to her seat, dodging the skeptical eyes of the other students. Anne accosted her as soon as she ensconced herself in her seat.</p><p> </p><p>“Freya--” she looked worried. “Is everything alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded, lowering her voice as she looked around, all the world’s eyes seeming to rove over her, making her feel like ants were creeping at her ankles, lapping at her skin, competing for her attention, undeserving.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you later, Anne. Swear to it.” </p><p> </p><p>Anne still looked alarmed, but gave up the chase. She turned to look through the small window in the door, where she could see the both of them still talking. Chief Sinclair’s face was open, amiable, warm, and decidedly affectionate as she spoke to their Professor. He himself had on a devilish smirk, behind which held adoration and fond longing.</p><p> </p><p>“You know what’s funny?” Anne said, leaning in once more.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know how my dad’s a coroner, right?” </p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded. Anne’s father often worked among the reputable and rubbed shoulders with people in very, very high places, she knew that much. It was one reason why his standards for his only daughter were so high.</p><p> </p><p>“Well--he’s told me about her--” and at this she indicated Chief Sinclair’s form with a point of her finger.</p><p> </p><p>“--said he’s met her a couple times at some parties held by the APD.” She looked curious.</p><p> </p><p>“And?”</p><p> </p><p>“And--well, he told me she’s rather--cold, I would say?. She <em> is </em>friendly, yes, but her mood towards you can sour in a near instant, he says. Tells me all the time about how she’s cutthroat--ruthless.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes--but--” she smiled knowingly, a little twinkle in her eyes. “Look there. She seems more happy and warm than <em> I’ve </em>ever seen her.”</p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded. She supposed--yes. That was so.</p><p> </p><p>The door opened, Kieran returning to his desk, still caught in speech, while Chief Sinclair leaned against the doorframe, watching after him.</p><p> </p><p>“...I can get it to you--I left it here last time and never returned it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That would be appreciated, subordinate.” She called, her tone teasing, her voice light and airy.</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, rummaging in a bag by his feet before producing a tiny umbrella, which he tossed to her. She caught it in deft fingers, her palms hovering over the thin material.</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t rain soon--but you can take that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, dear.” She smiled.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Colin, who had been lost in thought for a couple moments, suddenly burst out in a startled ejaculation. All turned to him, including Lauren.</p><p> </p><p>“I just remembered--!” He sat up, pointing a finger at Kieran.</p><p> </p><p>“Back in the beginning of the year--you introduced yourself as Mr. <em> Sinclair- </em>White.”</p><p> </p><p>He turned to Lauren. “You both are married!”</p><p> </p><p>Another shocked murmur rippled. Anne whistled, and Freya hit her arm to quiet her.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran smiled rather absently, gesturing helplessly to--who they now knew to be--his wife. “I guess the game’s up, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren laughed. “Hardly! You didn’t tell them?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran shrugged, a graceful, playful tilt of his shoulders. “Never came up!”</p><p> </p><p>Evan smiled, piping up from the back of the room. “That’s who you were drawing! I don’t read the newspapers--my parents do. I had no idea it was <em> her--” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Wait.” </em>Lauren looked amused. She turned to her husband.</p><p> </p><p>“You were drawing me?”</p><p> </p><p>Freya tamped down the urge to laugh as her Professor’s face turned the brightest shade of rose she’d ever seen on his face. He waved his hands placatingly.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah--no, it isn’t--”</p><p> </p><p>“Show her, <em> Professeur!” </em>Evan said excitedly. “It was a startling likeness!”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> do </em>want to see,” Lauren said coyly, leaving her position by the door frame to stride lightly up to his desk. Kieran balked, his hands grabbing the incriminating sheet in deft fingers, holding it up so she couldn't reach.</p><p> </p><p>“No really, I--”</p><p> </p><p>“Come <em> on, </em>dearest.” She smiled. “If I find it offensive I have ways of dealing with you, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you a most <em> loving wife--” </em></p><p> </p><p>But she’d snatched the leaflet from his fingers, bringing it down so she could look at it.</p><p> </p><p>She gasped. “<em> Oh. Kieran--” </em></p><p> </p><p>Instantly her face transformed. Where it had been teasing, mirthful, it now held surprise, awe, and a rosy hint of blush that spread in comely patches up the apples of her cheeks and lips. She looked more stunning than ever before, her face caught in perpetual happiness, and Freya could only guess what her Professor had managed to portray on the page, had chosen to represent the image of his wife, proud and beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>She looked at it for a few moments, silent, reverent, then turned to her husband, her eyes slightly watery, her smile blinding.</p><p> </p><p>“This is wonderful, <em> mon bonheur,” </em>she said earnestly, her hands trembling slightly around the sheet. Kieran looked at her in wonderment, his eyes shining with pride and affection. <br/><br/></p><p>“We’re supposed to draw what makes us happiest.” Evan hedged, his voice quiet and awed. “I suppose that’s what he was doing!”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren looked up in shock, then down at her husband, as he hid his face in the palm of his hand, hiding the furious thrush of scarlet that had dyed his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren’s fingers, then, impulsively reached out, pushing strands of hair from his forehead before pressing her lips to it lightly. Another round of delighted coos reverberated through the body of students, and some repressed gagging from the back joined in the symphony, now.</p><p> </p><p>”Kieran—“ she shook her head, a breathless laugh bleeding from her pinked lips.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you like it, <em> mon coeur.” </em>He said, his voice thick with endearment.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s beautiful--thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, pressing a brief kiss to her palm before stepping back, abashed. A few girls behind Freya giggled behind their own palms.</p><p> </p><p> “You should go--”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” She smiled, bowing slightly in playful dismissal before waving the sheet of paper in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“And I’m taking this with me--!”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s for my project--! Or--well, it was going to be.” He smiled. “But you can feel free to have it. I can always make another.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Professeur.” </em>Colin laughed. “This is--”</p><p> </p><p>“Got something to say about it, Colin?” Kieran raised an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Colin--like you can get a girl of your own!” James piped up, hitting his friend on the back. Colin growled. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey! You know I’m--”</p><p> </p><p>“Not having <em> any </em>luck. That woman you were telling me about from the 7th--she rejected you, cold--”</p><p> </p><p>“Could you <em> stop?” </em>Colin batted at James’ head in indignance.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren laughed, a laugh like bells and chimes, and turned on her heel with a mock salute.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you’ll find someone, <em> Colin.” </em>She said melodiously, causing Colin to blush furiously, burying his head in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be off--it was nice meeting everyone!” She waved a steady hand, and some people raised theirs in turn, bashful and blushing.</p><p> </p><p>She turned back. “I’ll see you tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran nodded, smiling. “You too.”</p><p> </p><p>And then she was gone, the only thing left in her wake being the lingering scent of honey.</p><p> </p><p>When she left, the classroom was bathed in silence for a few moments. Then, Evan broke it, hesitating.</p><p> </p><p>“We knew you were <em> married—</em>we just never made the connection.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah!” Anne cut in. “You never told us, <em> Professeur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He shrugged languidly. “Like I said, it never came up.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin piped up from his position behind his fingers. “That was <em> gross.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Was it?” Kieran laughed, surprisingly amused at what was rather a scathing comment.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I </em>thought it was cute!” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it was!”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, Colin—you prude—”</p><p> </p><p>“He can’t even get a girl to go out with him, who’s he to talk—?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey!” </em>He turned angrily back to the shouts made by the class. “I’m just saying it’s odd for a man to be so enamored--”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh.” </em>Kieran laughed, throwing his head back, and all turned to look as he stood up, leaning forward intimidatingly, palms on the table in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Come and find a wife for yourself and we’ll see what you say then, my boy.”</p><p> </p><p>Laughter swept through the class, and Colin, thoroughly defeated, sat back, his face as red as the Zinnia in the front of the room, wholly oblivious to the goings on of the people studying its silent beauty.</p><p> </p><p>Freya turned to Kieran. “Tell us a bit about her, <em> Professeur! </em>When were you two married?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh--” he sat back, tilting his head up. “About a year ago, now. Not for too long. But we’ve known each other a while.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you meet?” Anne asked excitedly.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm...<b>at work.” </b>He sighed. “We worked together for a time.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you <em> did </em>work for the APD!”</p><p> </p><p>He made to speak, then stopped. Then, he opened his mouth again, his face slightly thoughtful.</p><p> </p><p>“Well--no, I guess that’s a bit of a lie, now.” He smiled. “I met her before that, actually. Once...on a bridge. And I was—well, I guess you could say—intrigued?” He laughed a little.</p><p> </p><p>More gasps, giggles. Some of the boys, like Colin, huffed and mumbled in mild disgust, masking definitively a bout of jealousy.</p><p> </p><p>“We--” he looked down, his face curious. Freya couldn’t place what was on it.</p><p> </p><p>“She was just an officer, back then.” He chuckled ruefully. “We danced around each other for a bit--then I started working at her precinct.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh!” Anne clasped her hands together. “It was fate!”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran looked at her curiously. “Yes. I suppose you could say that.”</p><p> </p><p>Evan beamed. “And she’s who makes you happiest? Ever? Out of everything?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran looked at him for a moment, then down at the Zinnia. His face was overtaken, then, by reminiscence, by fondness--by love.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. She is.” He nodded, smiling, his eyes alight, aflame with sapphires and tourmaline fractures from the light streaming in through the windows.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He murmured lowly, and they could tell it was nothing but the utmost truth.</p><p> </p><p>The room erupted in a chorus of expressed adoration. Anne gushed. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh that is <em> sweet!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Freya nodded. “Yes. It is, rather.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” She looked down joyously. “That’s the first time you’ve agreed with me!”</p><p> </p><p>Freya shrugged, turning back to the Zinnia on her canvas. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose it is.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran stood, then, regarding the whole class, clapping his hands in finality.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s enough of that.” He glanced at the clock. “We have thirty minutes left, everyone. Get to work.”</p><p> </p><p>He leaned forward then, and the intimidating power, the ferocious command, it seeped into Freya’s bones again, making her shiver slightly with the intense pressure of his gaze on all of them.</p><p> </p><p>“I hear one word about this whole ordeal again and you’re all failing, <em> understood?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em>O-Ouais, Professeur.” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have a list of chapters and their summaries, and the summary sentence I wrote for this chapter is, and I quote from my notes, “Kieran’s students find out what a massive simp he is.” I rest my case.</p><p>Kieran’s students watching him interact with wifey, not in order: 😀🥰🥺🤮🤢😐 </p><p>Thank you all SO much for the absolutely overwhelming support on AAoCaA. I know I spent like 5 paragraphs thanking everyone already but I’m doing it again because the FLOOD I got honestly killed me. I love you all so much &lt;3</p><p>With that being said, TLoF definitely is going to continue on, and I hope that if you enjoyed AAoCaA, you can fall back onto this. I have about,,,,uhhh 20-22 chapters so far, and I’m TRYING to keep it below 25–but god do I have a lot of ideas ;-; I think cap will definitely be 25, though.</p><p>And oh boy, do I have things planned for you, lovely, wonderful reader.</p><p>I am also using Art Professor Kieran to not so subtly give out art tips. Par example—it’s very important to look at references. Like I said—or Freya, I guess—it’s not even necessarily just for getting the thing exact, but it’s for studying how the object works/exists. </p><p>Red/green are complimentary colors, and when mixed thoroughly will produce a brownish color. However, you can use it to create unity in paintings if you fluctuate the ratio of color. </p><p>(Aka: nobody cares Peachie)</p><p>As always I love you all so much. Your Peachie is constantly sobbing at your praise and affection.</p><p>Kudos/comments are Zinnias! &lt;3</p><p>Instagram: @artsofisha<br/>Contact: artsofisha@gmail.com</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Myrtle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Myrtle: happiness in marriage, fidelity, prosperity</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lauren averted her gaze from the strings of bright lights taunting her from the ceiling of the wedding hall, wincing as they seemed to shoot in intensity, getting brighter by the second.</p><p> </p><p>She chose instead to pick at the yellow sundress she wore, the hem draping in pools of lemon citrus down her bare legs. She grimaced as the sip of champagne she took shot down her throat, bubbles rising like a swarm of incessant bees.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she sighed, looked around at the rest of the happy party that were the lively attendees of the Hawkes’ wedding, and resolved to be less miserable. </p><p> </p><p>Truly, it wasn’t as though she had much reason to be so thoroughly at unease, but something about the way the muggy summer air lapped at her ankles and shoulders and the sight of happy, smiling, joyous faces made her feel rather like a wilting violet in comparison. </p><p> </p><p>She scoffed, leaning back with her palms pressed up against the refreshment table in the corner, and downed more drink. Checking her watch, she registered the time as fifteen to ten. </p><p> </p><p>Kym and Will themselves hadn’t quite wanted a grandiose affair for their wedding. But their parents on the other hand, did. Kym’s mother and father were so terribly thrilled at the prospect of seeing their daughter in white that they didn’t really have the heart to refuse them. And Will—</p><p> </p><p>Will had sat down one evening, his face hidden behind the hand that rose to card a palm abstractedly though his hair, and had remarked that if his mother were there today, she would have wanted nothing more than to see him at the altar, amongst throngs of friends and family. And Kym had looked at him sadly, sorrowfully, kissed him quick, and that had been that.</p><p> </p><p>So here they were. Here <em> she </em>was, wholly and utterly happy for her friends but drowning in some brand of sadness herself.</p><p> </p><p>She remembered the way Will had looked when Kym had placed her feet on the carpet, head downcast. It was a picture, a painting of a demure girl so unlike Kym in every way, and yet Will’s eyes had still lit with something ephemeral and real, his face had softened at the edges, and her own face, hidden behind a veil stitched with flowers, had lit up like a shining beacon, and that was the Kym she knew, that they all knew. Bright and illustrious in rapid flecks of color.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren would never admit to the small trails of water pooling at the edges of her face, but Kym would later state that she’d seen it from her peripheral, and that would be a cemented fact in history, carved in the tome of her embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>Mr. and Mrs. Hawkes then, it was. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiled at the thought, ruefully imbibing more of the rusted, hard-edged bubbles as she chased more thoughts of her friends into her mind, the sepia photographs imprinted in her memory, of their clasped fingers and broad smiles as an unknown officiant had droned on and on about dry facts that could be demonstrated if one would only look in front of them.</p><p> </p><p>Just then, the woman of the hour flitted into her own peripheral, dancing and joyful blues and creams behind her lashes.</p><p> </p><p>Kym was beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>That was a fact not often expressed, but it was irrefutable once she was placed in her element. </p><p> </p><p>Her dress was a stunning ivory, cinching at the waist before flaring in ripples and pleats of satin that draped in a soft manner, almost like the pinched feathers of the whitest doves. Her neck was studded with pearls, and the ocean waves of her hair were the same; dotted like shells amongst carefully threaded strands. To top it off, a crown of myrtle adorned her head like a halo, the flowers white and pure and positively lovely. But those weren’t what rendered her so radiant.</p><p> </p><p>No, it was the utter and unadulterated <em> happiness </em>in her face. The way her cheeks flushed and the apples of them were caught with perfect squares of light, it made her seem all at once both real and something out of a dream.</p><p> </p><p>She slung an arm around her shoulder in characteristic enthusiasm, her laughter resounding like bells in her ears.</p><p> </p><p>“Aye, Lauren!”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled. “Kym. Having fun? You look like you are.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym laughed, twirling the both of them slightly. “I <em> am, </em>actually. I didn’t think I would.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren’s eyes scanned the room conspiratorially. “Where’s your—<em> husband, </em>hm?”</p><p> </p><p>Kym disguised the flush that the newly-adopted term still brought to her cheeks with a flutter of her fingers in a vague direction over her shoulder. “Oh—he’s entertaining an aunt of his—she’s from somewhere far off north—and he hasn’t talked with her since he was a toddler--“</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—and <em> old fashioned, </em>let me hazard a guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym smiled thinly and knowingly, her eyes twinkling. “Right. She snubbed me—so I came to find you! To keep me company.”</p><p> </p><p>She looks down balefully at the glass of champagne she’s almost finished. “Looks to me like you need it, Laur.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, waving a hand in the air. “<b>I’m fine, Kym. Just feeling a bit…well--”</b></p><p> </p><p>She stopped. She realized with sudden force that she couldn’t really articulate what exactly it was that had doused her in a veneer of misery and—</p><p> </p><p>And—</p><p> </p><p>Loneliness.</p><p> </p><p>Kym frowned at her, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd, turning back to her with furrowed brows. Perceptive as ever.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you here <em> alone?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, a hand drawing up to thumb at her temples. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym scoffed. “I <em> told </em>you to bring a plus one—“</p><p> </p><p>“Kym.” Lauren looked at her sternly. “I think you know why I…”</p><p> </p><p>She trailed off, her voice dying like a baby bird on stone. Kym looked at her in silence for some time. </p><p> </p><p>“...You’re still waiting, aren’t you.”</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a question, but a statement that rang as only the utmost truth, like an embarrassing chime attached to her ankle, sounding a mocking tune wherever she stepped, a shackle of veracity she could not hope to escape. Lauren cast her eyes downward, undeserved shame creeping into her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re still waiting—for <em> him—“ </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Kym, please.” </em>Lauren implored suddenly, catching her friend by the shoulder and looking her dead in the eye. Perhaps it was palpable, the thread she hung by, for Kym’s face, once filled with masked contempt, softened infinitesimally in its intensity. </p><p> </p><p>“Lauren. It’s been two years—don’t you think you should—“</p><p> </p><p>“I should <em> what, </em>Kym?” She asked, her voice sour like apples, fallen from a tree and bruised with the weight of past misconduct, of things she’d rather crush to a pulp and sweep aside. The bitter tone must shoot, cry like a bullet, for Kym steps back, hurt and surprise registering on her pretty face.</p><p> </p><p>Immediate guilt floods into Lauren’s bones.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh—Kym—I’m sorry.” She apologizes, bowing her head a little. Her friend merely smiled wanly, placing a comforting hand on her fingers. They’re always cold, like frost has collected at her fingernails, and yet somehow they place a comforting warmth in her, like the summer day she resides in. </p><p> </p><p>“Lauren,” Kym started, her voice nearly pleading, filled with emotion, “I just want you to be--happy. Content.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren tilted her chin, her eyes narrowed in defiance. “I <em> am </em>happy, Kym.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you’re moping about here, <em> longing— </em>“ she bit her lip, looked askance before returning her gaze to hers.</p><p> </p><p>“It reminds me of back then. Too much so.” She pointed an accusatory finger, one that Lauren had to fight to bat away. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got the <em> exact </em> same look in your eyes!” </p><p> </p><p>Lauren sighed, shaking her head with solemn resolve, like a woman off to a treacherous war, like someone who has fought too long and too hard to be concerned with further battles.</p><p> </p><p>“Kym.” She looked her squarely in the eye. “You know me. You know why--”</p><p> </p><p>Kym sighed. “Yes. I’m not going to try and--”</p><p> </p><p>She bit her lip. Lauren grimaced.</p><p> </p><p>“I shouldn't be like this.” She put her hands on her shoulders, smiling warmly, lips parting in genuine throes of affection. “It’s <em> your </em> day today, and I’m just upsetting you.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym laughed, shaking her head, and Lauren watched the dangles of her pearl earrings sway delicately, like palm trees in the summer air, the myrtle crown on her head barely displaced by her movements.</p><p> </p><p>Just then, her other half came to join her, all wide smiles and flecked cheeks. Will looped an arm around her shoulders affectionately, throwing Lauren a knowing glance. His eyes shone in the fractals of light he was painted in, the waves of his hair flowing softly over his forehead like taffeta.</p><p> </p><p>“Bothering Lauren already, honey?”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut <em> up-- </em>I’m not bothering her!” She huffed, but tucked her head under his chin nonetheless. Lauren couldn’t help her delighted smile, seeing the easy way they moved, the simple way they shared the same breath, the same nudges and soft edges.</p><p> </p><p>“Will, dear--tell her that she needs to find someone to <em> dance </em>with.” She pouted, glaring daggers at her friend, who held up placating hands as they both looked at her in concern and contempt. Will frowned.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you alright, Lauren?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled. “Yes. I’m fine, I think. Kym here is just <em> attacking </em>me--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Lauren, </em>I’m getting you help and you know it!”</p><p> </p><p>Will cleared his throat, and the both of them stopped their bickering for a moment, electing to fill the air with gentle laughter instead. Will’s hand came up gently to cup his wife’s face in a broad palm, pressing a reverent kiss to her red cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>After a few moments of comfortable silence, only punctuated by the sips they took of their champagne, a glass somehow having gravitated to Kym’s fingers, she spoke again.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s getting--well, not too late, I’d expect.” Her hands instantly went for where pockets should be, searching for her watch.</p><p> </p><p>She stopped suddenly, a pale flush to her face, and her hand snapped back as though burned on a coal iron. This did not go unnoticed by her two companions, her husband immediately tugging her to his side comfortingly.</p><p> </p><p>Will drew a thin pocket watch out of his own pocket, flipping open the lid to study the hands carefully. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s almost eleven.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym frowned for a few moments, and Lauren threw her a skeptical glance.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you thinking--?”</p><p> </p><p>“Williame!” She pounced, her eyes alight with mischief. “Want to ditch?”</p><p> </p><p>He balked. “What--our own wedding? Kym--”</p><p> </p><p>“Come <em> on--” </em> and with a practiced charm and a flick of her wrist, she took him by the fingers, her eyes pleading. “It’s <em> our </em>wedding, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Will made to helplessly protest, but before reluctant words could flow Lauren chimed in, her voice laced with amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“I can hold down the fort, if you two want to leave.”</p><p> </p><p>Kym whirled on her, surprised.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?! You would do that?” Will asked incredulously.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren shrugged. “If it were my wedding, I’d want to ditch, too.” She smiles knowingly, a sardonic glint in her eye.</p><p> </p><p>They both looked at her for some time. Then, at each other.</p><p> </p><p>A slow grin spread across Will’s face. He laughed, suddenly, his head thrown back, like he hadn’t laughed in ages. He twined an arm around his wife’s waist, and lowered his voice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Then that sounds like an adventure.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Kym whooped, and Will had to shush her quickly as they prepared to leave.</p><p> </p><p>Will tossed a glance over his shoulder as he shrugged on a coat he’d managed to produce.</p><p> </p><p>“You should stay and have some fun, Lauren. Dance a bit.” He looked rather sorrowfully at her fingers, twisting themselves at the tuck of her dress. Lauren sighed, waving a hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes, mother. I’ll be fine.” She smiled ruefully. “Congratulations, you two.”</p><p> </p><p>Will and Kym looked at her. Then, they both smiled, twin spots of rose rising to their cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Lauren.” Kym said, rather distantly, sorrowfully. “For--<em> everything.” </em></p><p> </p><p>And Lauren knew she wasn’t just talking about tonight.</p><p> </p><p>As she watched them flit in between the patrons unnoticed before disappearing behind a curtain of night, intertwined so closely she could feel it palpably, she once again felt horribly, impossibly alone, even in the ocean waves of people surging through the wedding hall. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes roved over the crowd, scanning for any signs of trouble before sighing, turning to reach for another glass of champagne.</p><p> </p><p>“Party not tickling your fancy?”</p><p> </p><p>She turned suddenly at the voice to find a young man staring from beside her. His smile was amiable--not too wide, not too brisque--and his chestnut hair was neatly tended to. His eyes were nice--plain green things that twinkled like mirthful fireflies, a mix of hazel and gold and emerald.</p><p> </p><p>She bowed her head politely. “Not particularly. I’m--not a huge fan of large gatherings.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I think most of us aren’t, in the end.” He laughed, tilting his chin. He was young--probably only a little older than her. His face was youthful, innocent, unmarked.</p><p> </p><p>“You have some company I’m keeping you from?” He inquired. Lauren waved her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“No. I’m here alone.” She pointed backwards, to where Kym and Will were--well, <em> supposed </em>to be.</p><p> </p><p>“Friends of the lucky couple. I’m just here for them.” She chuckled sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck subconsciously, twisting the small hairs there in hesitance.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” He nodded. “I see.”</p><p> </p><p>He turned to her, extending a hand. “I’m Noah. Noah Descourtes.”</p><p> </p><p>She took the proffered palm with reluctance, shaking it firmly. “Lauren.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t give her last name. Somehow she had a feeling she didn’t need to.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Well-- </em>Lauren.” He smiled winningly, his hair falling boyishly in front of his face. “You’re too pretty to be standing here alone.”</p><p> </p><p>He gestured to the people now swaying to the beat of an unknown rhythm, syrupy, lilting notes seeping through the cracks of the previous silence. She watched hints of beating gold, startling blue and purple wander aimlessly through the white decking the hall, myrtle blossoms tucked into the corners and twined into the crevices of walls.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to dance with me?” He asked earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?’ a voice had intoned. She’d near hated that voice, then, as much as it was smooth and deep, like thick notes from the strings of a cello, a baritone that didn’t stand out in the night as much as it wove into it, wicker strands threaded into a basket holding all she’d hoped for. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She looked up at him, glaring lights surrounding the dark beast.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Of course. And I know--” she smiles up at him--”he is a fine dancer.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But he turns away, and she can no longer see his face, feel his breath or hear his laugh-- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m--sorry if the request is impertinent.”</p><p> </p><p>Noah’s voice cuts through the reverie, and she snaps to with apologetic embarrassment, waving a hand in front of her to stop the slight hurt on the young boy’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“No! No--I’m sorry.” She laughed nervously. “Lost in thought.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked back out to the crowd. Kym and Will’s pleas rang in her ears like taunting bells, the shackles on her wrists tugging her forward into the flame like a hapless moth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re still waiting? For him--? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She scoffed to herself, turning back to the eager man, still holding out an aching palm, empty of another.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t made any mention of her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was the innate courtesy that had been hammered, nails to the apexes of her limbs, into the nobleman’s young daughter, but some twig in her snapped, something caused her to forgo all inhibitions, for she stepped forward and took his hand, smiling hesitantly.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>He led her out onto the dance floor steadily, and they started up, her arms drawing up to his shoulder tentatively, her touch as though there was a sheer bubble around her skin. She felt like she was walking on pins and needles, and when she looked up into her companion’s face it felt fundamentally <em> wrong, </em>somehow, like there was a piece that was missing from the equation.</p><p> </p><p>He started light conversation with her, and she found that to be somewhat of a respite.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me a bit about yourself, Lauren.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm. What would you like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well.” He twirled, his steps light and practiced. She huffed out a breath as he tilted his head back, thinking. “What do you do? Who, exactly, are you?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed, the corners of her lips tilting in a little half-smile. “I’m a detective.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! How nice!” He smiled, his teeth pearly white and blinding. “I’m sure you’re very strong, then.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Pretty impressive, officer. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” she looked down. “I would say I’m capable.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughed, and it was a rather nice laugh--smooth and plain. “I’m sure you sell yourself short, <em> Madame </em> Detective!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What would you like me to call you now--detective?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She laughed, light streaming through the checkerboard slats of gaps in the cell bars.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No. It sounds wrong. Officer is just fine.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Really? It’s alright?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes. When you do it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What else?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm--I’m pretty focused on my career, at the moment.” She stifled a startled gasp as he dipped her low, a stray hand on the small of her back. She wished it would feel less like crawling ants on the dips of her skin.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s commendable. Wish I could say something of the same.” He let out a sheepish chuckle, righting her as the music swayed lightly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She clutched the devil tightly as he bent her, a hand on her waist to keep her locked to him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “So, Sinclair? What’s your plight?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m dancing with a demon, aren’t I? She’d gasped. “I have many things to worry about.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“My parents are giving me the catering business once they’re retired--but I don’t know if that’s something I really want to do.”</p><p> </p><p>She frowned up at him curiously, shifting her legs as the dance continued. Her palm felt light and airy in his, and her head the same; she could sense almost nothing--for once, no danger flooded her mind, no sorrow. Only empty, blank sheets, scrolls with nothing on them but grainy sand.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d want to leave central Ardhalis.” Noah said, his voice thoughtful. “I don’t much care for it, here.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren nodded vaguely. “It’s not a nice city, sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He paused, looking down at her, at the way the glint of the lights danced on her lips, in her eyes as she regarded him steadily, with relative indifference. </p><p> </p><p>“Well. Lune took care of most of the danger--but there’s still the matter of it being rather an unsavory place to live.” He scrunched his nose up, his forehead wrinkling slightly. Lauren hid the hitch of her breath, the nervous tic she could not escape, behind a droop of her lids, eyes downcast, staring at the way their feet intermingled, out of synch.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s--true, yes.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked down at her, detecting the curious note to her voice. “Are <em> you </em>happy, here?”</p><p> </p><p>The question was earnest, honest, and she stopped to truly consider it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you happy, Lauren?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She turned to him, black and blue mixing in the light in front of her. It was some vague form of torture, not being able to discern where she was in the fractions of life she lived in. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She was in a bed, drowning in plush sheets and oppressive covers, and yet there was someone next to her, holding her tightly, whispering, making it alright. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes, she wanted to say, but that would be a lie. Because things were incomplete, and even so she couldn’t lie to him, not to him--he didn’t deserve that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s alright if you say no.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “But it’s not because of you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you sure of that?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That’s the one thing I am sure of.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I--” she grimaced. <b>“Yes. I’m fine.” </b></p><p> </p><p>She looked up at Noah, his plain, open expression, and their faces were close enough, now, to see tiny freckles on his pale skin, the perfect curls of his hair falling in front of easy-going green eyes—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Raven hair tucked into a knot at the nape of his neck, and she curled her fingers around it, feeling the pulse of his heart.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His eyes were trained on hers as he murmured nothings into her shoulder, and she knew that they would rival stars if only she’d ask him to show them to her, if she could just see the blue of them in one, whole shot, the focal point of a picture she’d always look back to. And she knew more than anything that he’d do it if she implored, if it was even a breath on her tongue that she wasn’t entirely sure of.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Black, blue. Purple. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren--” Noah started, his voice very close, his hands startlingly near. She looked up at him blankly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Lauren. Lauren. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Lauren--” he’d said, and held her close, their limbs scattered in ruffled cloth. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Lauren--” and her face was in his broad palms, warmth seeping in like she’d been branded, hot coals pressed and never taken off, and she’d clutched his wrists and held it to her, because she felt so, very cold, and no matter what his hands always seemed like everlasting flames had kissed them. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Lauren.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And it was a chant, a mantra, a thing she could never get tired of. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hand snaked lower, grasping her waist, and he dipped low until their lips were a breath apart--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Kieran. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She snapped, her fingers scrabbling to push against his arms, extricate herself from his grasp with a rasping, fiery gasp, and when she staggered away awkwardly her hands came up to fiddle at her stomach, nervous and tense. Her skirt felt like it wasn’t on her body anymore, her skin twisted like an infestation.</p><p> </p><p>Noah looked rather taken aback, then a little put out. Lauren felt a horrible wave of guilt creep over her again, and she frantically waved her hands, her eyes dutifully averted.</p><p> </p><p>“I am--<em> so </em>sorry--I don’t know what--”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright.” He panted hurriedly, his own hands in the air, placating. “It’s alright.”</p><p> </p><p>She grit her teeth, lips curving in a sneer only for herself as she looked down at her feet. Myrtle studs bloomed there like a taunting flower field that sunk into her toes like grains of sand. She wanted to scream.</p><p> </p><p>“You--” he started, and she jerked her head up at his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“You said you were here alone.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, regarded her with composure she envied. </p><p> </p><p>“I am--”</p><p> </p><p>“But not in spirit, I don’t think.” He clicked his jaw. Her eyes narrowed in defiance, anger searing to the forefront of her swirling emotion.</p><p> </p><p>“Who are you to say--”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t blame you.” He held up his hands, palms outstretched. </p><p> </p><p>“I can tell when someone’s waiting for something.”</p><p> </p><p>She sneered. </p><p> </p><p>He looked at her steadily, impartially. His gaze was almost unnerving, how patient it was.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he still around?”</p><p> </p><p>She grit her teeth. “I don’t think--”</p><p> </p><p>“If you don’t want to talk, I understand.” He shrugged. “I just don’t think you should be denying it.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked down, ashamed. Words fell from her lips, like they’d been ripped out by searching, grasping fingers not of her own.</p><p> </p><p>“I...everything’s fine. We’re ok, him and I. I just--” she looked up. “I haven’t been able to see him for--a time.”</p><p> </p><p>Noah nodded. “I understand that, too.” </p><p> </p><p>Then, he sighed. “Well--Lauren.” And taking her hand in his, pressing a kiss to the knuckles in quiet respect, he turned back.</p><p> </p><p>But not before he threw a glance back, his green eyes shining with something untraceable.</p><p> </p><p>“Then you should try--whatever it may take. After all--” he smiled.</p><p> </p><p>“You seem to love him enough.”</p><p> </p><p>And Noah Descourtes leaves her to her own vices, having made no lasting impression but one.</p><p> </p><p>She looks around, notes the world still spinning, still turning around her on its course. </p><p> </p><p>Then, stifled and choked by the muggy air, the scent of flowers and the cheers now winding to a close as the night falls to its zenith, she turns on her heel and runs. </p><p> </p><p>Runs as well as she can in her heels, which is to say impressively so, out the doors and into the cold night, the wind of a late summer darkness whipping her hair, floating strands in front of her face like red beacons.</p><p> </p><p>She pauses outside the hall, her breath huffing out in the air, and looks towards the streets, lined with street lamps and flickering lights from myriad windows, the soft scent of flowers and honey perfume still drifting out from the hall.</p><p> </p><p>She pants heaving breaths, drawing her pocket watch out of her purse again. Looks down at the time.</p><p> </p><p>Ten to midnight.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes, her treacherous eyes, they find themselves looking beyond, towards the stars and the moon hung in the sky, a waxing crescent framing the tall spire of a tower beyond.</p><p> </p><p>She makes a decision with herself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She still has some time. </em>
</p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>He sits by dim candlelight, amongst pools and piles of sheets marked with graphite.</p><p> </p><p>He lights another candle unceremoniously, watching as the wick springs to life under the ministrations of the flame.</p><p> </p><p>He always promised himself, on nights like these, that he'd retire once the candle burned down to the bottom of the tray. Once the wax had bled down to thin. But three candlesticks later and he'd still be wide awake, striking graphite and charcoal smudges into an unforgiving sheet of blank paper, writing notes too small for anyone else to see in the margins. Working, working to stop the bleeding, the aching, the tremors.</p><p> </p><p>At some point it had gotten horribly exhausting, the way his limbs curled in defiance when he tried to inspire himself to live through the nights and days. </p><p> </p><p>He’d woken up today with new resolve in his bones, he’d tried to tell himself.</p><p> </p><p>And yet here he was again, two discarded wicks of wax by the stacks of his sketchbook.</p><p> </p><p>Sighing, Kieran cards a hand through his hair in abstraction, his pencil listelessy dragging itself over the parchment, trying to capture the curve of a swan’s beak through sheer memory, recalling the day he’d seen one descend into the fountain of a nobleman’s house, back when he’d gone and--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He grits his teeth, lets out a helpless laugh, though it is more the bark of a strangled dog. </p><p> </p><p>Frowning at the way the candle casts insufficient prisms of light on the page, barely illuminating the spaces he needs, he rips the page from the book, setting it down on an unknown pile before starting again, the pencil tip scratching like a gramophone needle.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to capture something he knows well, something he can draw without trying, something--</p><p> </p><p>Something--</p><p> </p><p>It’s a damnable thing, because his fingers and mind don’t need to try and reach for that unknown something.</p><p> </p><p>Immediately the soft planes of a face take shape, the hair, cascading like waterfalls down thin shoulders, power and confidence in them no matter how slender they are. The way her lips pout, the way she smiled at him last--</p><p> </p><p>But her eyes, they are always less than perfect. He can never seem to capture all they do to him in graphite and pencil, in tempera and oils, it would always be something he’d have to look at intensely to study, to keep charting and mapping like a forgotten sea, something he cannot hope to ever have for himself.</p><p> </p><p>And it wears on. The candle flickers more than usual. If he concentrated on anything other than his task, he would have heard frantic, pulsing footsteps, clicks of a long heel.</p><p> </p><p>And then, jerking upwards, he turns. Because something has disturbed the calm like a pebble to still water, casting ripples through his sanity and causing him to break, whirl around to find exactly what he’d been asking to find.</p><p> </p><p>She stands before him, panting heavily from exertion, her hands limp and useless by her sides, a faint flower caught in her fingers as she stares at him from behind his cage.</p><p> </p><p>And stare she does, those illusive eyes ever-captivating. And he gives back in turn, stares with equal shock, like it is the first time he’s ever seen her. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says, finally, his voice raspy with disuse.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” she breathes, her voice clarion and starling in the stillness of the Tower.</p><p> </p><p>He eyes her keenly, still with the last draining dregs of surprise. “This is early, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles thinly, hands clutching her elbows, closed and hunched like she normally is not. “If it’s unwelcome--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Never.” </em>He cuts off, turning fully in the chair he sits in.</p><p> </p><p>It is then, once his eyes rove over her body, that he seems to register what she’s wearing.</p><p> </p><p>A gauzy sundress, canary and marigold yellow settling over her curves decidedly and draping steadily like melted figures of butter, the straps thin and arching over her delicate collarbones. She smooths the fabric over her hips self-consciously, tucks hair behind her ear just so, and his eyes move further, to the bits of light caught in the swing of her lashes and the Myrtle petals in her flame-red hair.</p><p> </p><p>“You look--” he breathes out, his voice barely an incredulous whisper.</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, her eyes crinkling, and that only cements it further. </p><p> </p><p>“You look beautiful,” he says, more sure this time. She flushes a comely pink, her coral lips turning up in a bashful grin.</p><p> </p><p>“You think so, subordinate?”</p><p> </p><p>His voice is choked up in his throat, and as he rises steady to make his way to the wall to sit with her his eyes never leave her form. </p><p> </p><p>He comes to a realization.</p><p> </p><p>“The wedding was today, wasn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles thinly as her back slides against the wall, her hair tumbling down in waves around her shoulders, and he knows instantly that his drawing couldn’t hold even a mere wax strip of candle to the light in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you think I got all dolled up for <em> you, </em>subordinate?” She teases, her smirk wide. He throws his head back, laughs a choir song, a harmonious melody of chimes and bells, one he hasn’t been able to manage for weeks.</p><p> </p><p>“I considered it for a second--but then I realized it wasn’t possible.” He shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>Then, turning to her, he cocked an eyebrow. “How--was it? Shouldn’t you be--?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” she waved a hand. “It wasn’t too much of an affair, really. Kym and Will themselves even got bored after a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm.” Kieran hummed. “That doesn’t surprise me. They left you there?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed ruefully, drawing her knees up to her chest, waves of silk pooling at the edges. “I allowed them to--they deserved it.”</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “That--” </p><p> </p><p>He turns to her, his gaze steady, filled with concern. “That’s not the only reason, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why you’re here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Must I have some ulterior motive?”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs. “I know you, Lauren.” He curves his head so his eyes meet hers. “You’re distressed--what is it?”</p><p> </p><p>She stops, her mouth agape, and something in the way she looks at him gives him pause. It is roving and keen, her eyes lingering at his eyes, lips, the way his body is draped over itself as he regards her with kind patience, with soft concern.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she turns to her knees, her arms drawing up tighter around herself before she looks up at him, holding out a single Myrtle stem in her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>He takes it through the bars, as he always does, and twirls it gently before turning back to her. “What--?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “I--” </em> she starts, then closes her mouth, her lips pressed like dried flowers to parchment. He finds that her expression--well, it <em> scares </em>him a little--it is frantic and pleading, with herself or with him.</p><p> </p><p>She won’t continue, something within her at war, and he looks down at his feet before turning to her.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you go alone--?”</p><p> </p><p>She swivels her head, her eyes furious and hurt. “Of <em> course. </em>Who would I go with?”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs languidly, although he feels anything but. “I just--I’m not sure.”</p><p> </p><p>He turns to find her mouth open, teeth clenched. She shakes her head angrily. Kieran stops for a moment, then looks down, insecurity washing over him like a cold bucket of frost.</p><p> </p><p>“You--if you went with someone else...that’s okay, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>She stops completely, her face frozen, blank. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>He turns to her, his smile rueful, helpless. “You should, I mean--have fun. Go out with someone nice.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Kieran.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She stops him with just a breath of his name on her delicate lips, and he pauses, aware that he’s crossing into dangerous territory. She is near seething now, the warm colors on her body clashing in a force of flames.</p><p> </p><p>“You know <em> damn </em>well why I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks down, shameful. “Lauren. Look--”</p><p> </p><p>He turns to her, his breath hitching with uncertainty. “I’m saying--you deserve more than this.”</p><p> </p><p>She sneers. “What does <em> that </em>mean?”</p><p> </p><p>He gestures wildly, towards the dingy cell and the light barely scrubbing the edges of his vision. <em> “This! </em>I mean--”</p><p> </p><p>He scoffs, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be...waiting for me. You deserve--<em> god, </em> if I even <em> began </em>to describe the things you deserve--”</p><p> </p><p>He barks out a laugh, and it is not genuine anymore. </p><p> </p><p>“You deserve more than me, Lauren.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t even hear her breathe, that is how cold and quiet she has gotten. He is almost afraid, afraid to dive into the fire again. But he has said his truth, and he knows that she knows. </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> bastard,” </em>Is what she comes up with.</p><p> </p><p>He looks up at her to find her face surprisingly calm. It’s almost dangerous, how smooth her brows and lips are, how casually she spits his damnations.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> so--” </em>she grits her teeth. “You really think that I’m--”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, and he can hear the hurt in her voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you even considering <em> me </em>in the matter?”</p><p> </p><p>He stops, his mouth parted, and he cannot say anything to her as she begins her testimony.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever considered I’m waiting for you because <em> I don’t want anyone else?” </em>She asks.</p><p> </p><p>“I--”</p><p> </p><p>“That it’s not about what you think you <em> deserve, Kieran-- </em> dammit, you deserve the <em> world, </em>and I--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “That--” </em> he chokes out, water threatening to lap at his throat--”is a <em> lie </em>and you know it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, believe me, subordinate,” and she is the intense fury he loves so, “if you had my ability you’d <em> know </em>that it wasn’t,” she coaxes, her body tilted to meet his head on, practically on her knees so that she is taller than him, more imposing.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> want </em> you. I don’t <em> want </em> someone else--and it’s not about what you deserve, it’s about <em> what I want.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She points a finger, accusatory. “You called me selfish once--”</p><p> </p><p><em>“Lauren—</em>no—“</p><p> </p><p><em> “So, </em> let me be selfish.” and she smiles, actually smiles, soft and warm and <em> real.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s because I love you, Kieran.”</p><p> </p><p>He is left bereft of words, nothing coming to his lungs but swelling affection. </p><p> </p><p>She stops her tirade, breath coming out in panting gasps.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it’s the first time she’s uttered it with such confidence, such surety, and he knows that it would never, <em> never </em>be a lie.</p><p> </p><p>Closing her eyes, letting her lashes kiss her cheeks, she sighs, leaning back against the wall. He watches her intensely, his eyes never leaving hers.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> did-- </em>dance with someone,” she admits, her voice sullen. He nods solemnly, holds the myrtle bloom tighter, even unconsciously. </p><p> </p><p>“It was <em> nice </em>even, it wasn’t unsavory, or anything--but the whole time--” she stops, shakes her head helplessly, throwing him a glance that leaves him weak, bleeding.</p><p> </p><p>“--All I could think about was you.”</p><p> </p><p>There is pregnant silence, in which the candle flickers, the wax pooling like cream down onto the tray. He laughs ruefully, rubbing his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“To tell you the truth--I…” He looks down, embarrassed, all of a sudden.</p><p> </p><p>“When you told me the date of the wedding I--” he looks over at her, his eyes alight with an emotion even he cannot bring himself to name--”I just thought it would be nice if I could--”</p><p> </p><p>He looks down, teasing his fingers loosely around the myrtle stem. “Don’t know if you’d exactly want to dance with a devil on a night such as this--but his invitation awaits.”</p><p> </p><p>She stares at him, and he casts a searching glance over at her through his peripheral, gold and red swimming together in hazy unfocus. </p><p> </p><p>Then, she laughs. And laughs. And laughs.</p><p> </p><p>She throws her head back, and her eyes shine with unrestrained mirth. She is happy, joyful, a lilting bird-- a dove with white wings.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry.” She leans her head against the cool metal of the bars, right where his is. “I know that he is a fine dancer--”</p><p> </p><p>She turns, her voice affectionate. </p><p> </p><p>“--I’d dance with him regardless of anything.”</p><p> </p><p>He stops, regards her for a few moments before his face softens, and he leans his face against where hers would be, and they would touch if not for the great divide between them.</p><p> </p><p>Silence, comfortable this time. Then:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I love you, Lauren.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She turns to him, incredulous. He smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“That isn’t a lie, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, a pretty flush on her cheeks that he wishes he could mark in his sketchbook, shade in reds and pinks. </p><p> </p><p>“If it were I would have kicked you.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs “Go right ahead, officer!”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, closing her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Can <em> I </em> be selfish for a bit, <em> mon cœur?” </em></p><p> </p><p>She turns to him, her brows raised, her eyes curious. </p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Stay with me for a bit?”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses. Then, smiling, nodded fervently. “Of course, <em> mon bonheur. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>And they stayed, long after the final candle snuffed out, leaving the pair in darkness. </p><p> </p><p>But they knew that they were still there, could feel each other even in the deepest shroud of shadow.</p><p> </p><p>They always did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>;v; </p><p>Just Kieran, missing his lady. And just Lauren, wanting Kieran ✨I KNOW WHAT THE PEOPLE WANT.</p><p>Thank you all so much for the overwhelming response on LaL omg ;v; that was so kind &lt;3 you all are always too nice to me</p><p>Twice a week TLoF updates sound fair to you? ;)</p><p>Comments/kudos are myrtle blossoms &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Purple Hyacinths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Purple Hyacinth: I’m sorry; please forgive me</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They forget sometimes, the assassin and the officer, that they are just like any other couple.</p><p> </p><p>After all, when their pasts are rooted in things not said—and if they are verbalized it is done so in hushed breath and white covers, never acknowledged by sight—they find themselves falling into the delusion that they are special, different.</p><p> </p><p>But there are moments where it is made clear that this is not so. That at the end of the day, the assassin and officer are just two people. Two lovers, two partners.</p><p> </p><p>And partners—they fight, sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>Ah, but then it is rendered in something opposite again. For while every couple may fight, the assassin and the officer—they do it a bit differently.</p><p> </p><p>For the assassin and officer, it is a mere matter of torrential, absolute battle.</p><p> </p><p>For the assassin and officer, it is war.<br/><br/></p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>They’re not really sure how it starts. </p><p> </p><p>It’s high winter; not the suppressive cheer of the holidays, but the fractions of time afterwards, where snow falls like a blanket over dead and dry flowers and encases them for another season, and it is there that Lauren sets down a stack of plates with unyielding harshness, the sound so loud and piercing it’s a surprise they haven’t broken yet.</p><p> </p><p>“All I’m <em> trying </em> to tell you is that in <em> your </em>position, it’s not a good idea to take on the extra workload—“</p><p> </p><p><em> ”</em><em>What </em>position is that, then?” Kieran answers back just as tersely, his hands frozen on a dishcloth still caked with soap, smelling tauntingly of fresh grass and soft, cloying fabric.</p><p> </p><p>They’re on the coattails of a tense dinner, and Kieran had brought up the university’s proffered intensives, how he’d have to stay late at the building in order to keep everything running, and perhaps <em> that </em>is where it starts, her anger borne from innate worry.</p><p> </p><p>“The position where you don’t sleep for days on end because you’re working long hours into the night--”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, like <em> you </em>can say anything about that, officer.” She can hear the click of his jaw, the heartbeat that breaks between them as he sets about wiping suds off his hands. She turns, a plate still clutched tightly in her fingers, watching his own move in striking, cold motions across his skin.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to say something about <em> my--” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes, </em> I think I am.” He scoffs. “You try to preach to me about forgoing this opportunity in favor of sleeping when-- <em> what, </em> officer--when was the last time you <em> really </em>came to bed--?”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you calling me a hypocrite, Kieran?” She turns, hands on her hips and a beautiful scowl on her face, painted in perfect, mounting loathing across her pretty features. Once, he would have admired it, called it an endearing quirk of hers, but not today, not when it mirrors his own too perfectly.</p><p> </p><p>“If you want to <em> put words in my mouth, </em> darling, then <em> yes.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She gestures indignantly. “If you think I’m going to let you disregard your own wellbeing--”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> who </em> disregards that more, hm?” He growls, a thing from the back of his throat. “You just want to <em> win, </em>that’s it. But really--”</p><p> </p><p>He leans back, cocks his head in a mockery of pity, like a curious animal inspecting the spoils of its hunt. She doesn’t like it, and she supposes that he doesn’t either, but through stress and anxiety and the winter chill seeping into their wide, vacuous home, it has come to this, this pantomime.</p><p> </p><p>“--if you’re going to be this transparent about your double standards I’m starting to think you don’t really <em> care, </em>in the end—about the strain.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have <em> no </em> right to say that to me, Kieran.” She says, pinches out through gritted teeth. “You <em> know </em>it’s just because I don’t want you out that late--”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> you </em> yourself, Lauren? What the <em> hell-- </em> how on earth do you think <em> I </em>feel? About you staying in that office late until near three--”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> know </em>I can take care of myself--!”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> I </em>can’t?!” He shouts, nearly knocking over a vase of little daisy flowers by the windowsill. Catching it swifty, he barely manages to right it, count the steady petals, before he’s off again.</p><p> </p><p>“You know--I wonder if it’s <em> that </em> at all--if you just don’t want to because you’re afraid of what I’ll <em> do </em>outside, late at night.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence between them hangs like a tapestry of their hatred. And is it ever a thing, sewn with no true regard, so when one thread is pulled the rest come tumbling down, too.</p><p> </p><p>He watches the gentle slope of her back to him as she turns, slowly, like a doll rotating on its hinges, threatening. He supposes that this is it, the true Lauren Sinclair, rendered perfectly in startling, intimidating red and maroon, the color of the dress she wears clinging to her skin in perfect panels, the seams twisting as she stakes her claim on the hill she will die on.</p><p> </p><p><em> “What </em>did you just say?”</p><p> </p><p>“You heard me well, officer--” he laughs, something that doesn’t even manage to meet his own ears--”I know you’re not deaf.”</p><p> </p><p>Her lips curl in a sneer. “Say it again, I <em> dare </em> you-- <em> darling </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>And he knows she is beyond seething, beyond the line of flame, when that lovely little endearment spills like the most bitter wine from her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re worried I’m going to come home, covered in blood up to my elbows--you’re worried I’d lose myself after not sleeping for days.” </p><p> </p><p>He says it so very calmly, like he’s talking about the weather, how sunny it is and where the clouds are blowing in from. He says it like a fact, and what choice does she have other than vehemently deny it?</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t that it? Is that what you think when you look at me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran--what the <em> fuck--” </em> She growls--”how could you even <em> say-- </em> you know <em> damn </em>well--”</p><p> </p><p>“I know <em> damn </em> well <em> what, </em>Lauren?” He throws up his hands, laughs mirthlessly. “It’s not like you can escape the knowledge of who I was--”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> thought </em>we established that--” and she moves closer, a lepress, and he can’t help but admire, even now, how confident her steps have gotten, how decisive her movements are as she closes a little bit of the gaping chasm between them, her stance positively indignant and alight with suppressed anger. </p><p> </p><p>“I--” she punctuates--”don’t--” she snarls--”care.”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, a sardonic and regrettable smirk on his lips. “You <em> do, </em> I think. You have to care, damnit—when <em>I </em>can’t even—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re just projecting your own insecurities onto me!” She bites out, all snapping teeth. She points a stray, graceful finger in accusation, in damnation. “You think that your opinion of yourself is universal because your <em> ego </em> is the size of a damn <em>house--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Oh, are we talking about <em> my </em>ego, darling?” He laughs, and it reads like a bark, a snarl, a cry of anger. He is a torrential storm, and while she’d normally fall into it time and time again, it is too sharp for her liking, too jagged around the edges, and it would cut her and let her bleed if she wasn’t as careful as she’d thought herself to be.</p><p> </p><p>That she’d deluded herself into thinking she was.</p><p> </p><p>“You might not care, and that’s all that matters to you—but the whole <em> world </em> does.” he chuckles, bordering on hysterical. “You should hear some of the people <em> talk!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I do, I do--”</p><p> </p><p>“And does that sway your opinion of the man you come home to?” He snarls, the question bleeding humorless rage. “Does it make you think of all the people he’s touched before you? All the people I’ve laid my hands on--”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You bastard--” </em> she near shrieks, and she is glad, suddenly, that Lana is on leave, so she can’t hear their fight, their struggle, their war.<br/><br/><br/></p><p>The snow continues to fall outside, blinding white, too bright.</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps I <em> should </em> admit it, then—would you like that?” She laughs. “You’re going to be content with a lie because you’re too caught up in the blood and your own insecurity to <em> care </em>about me—“</p><p> </p><p>“Even the people you <em> care </em>about, god—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re such a selfish, <em> goddamn narcissist! You’re only thinking about your</em>self--”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you blame me for Dylan’s death?”</p><p> </p><p>That question, that question. It’s such a tonal dissonance, reads like a mislaid chord in the symphony of battle, and it’s so calm and serene that she almost trips on the dichotomy of it.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at him, murderous fury rising in her like a phoenix begging to be reborn. </p><p> </p><p>“Kieran--<em> now you’ve gone and done it.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do you, Lauren?” He cocks his head. “I’ve wondered for some time, if you did. After all--I <em> did </em> kill him. It’s <em> my </em>fault your friend is dead.”</p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head mockingly, like there is a decade lost, and he still is guarded with her.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, her breath stolen from her lips--by him, the master criminal, the thief, the--</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t. I don’t--” she hesitates, she hesitates. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“I never have--”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>He sneers. “I know you too well--<em> my wife.” </em> He stresses the term as he draws ever closer, his bare feet making barely-there noises as he moves over chestnut colored floorboards, as he stalks like he once would have to reach his prey, his destination. </p><p> </p><p>“I know when you’re lying to me—I don’t need your ability.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s <em> funny </em>of you—then you clearly don’t need me around—“</p><p> </p><p>“You know, deep down, that all of it--it’s because of <em> me--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re so keen to talk--” she snarls. “Why do you assume I don’t have an equal hand in the matter--that I’m not dragging you down with me--?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why the <em> hell  </em> would you think that when <em> I’m </em>the one who--”</p><p> </p><p>“No--” she points a finger. “You’re just being selfish, and egotistical, and you’re too caught up in yourself to <em> really </em>care--do you even really care? About what I think--?”</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren--<em> of course </em> I care, I care more than <em> myself--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re not acting like it now!” Her voice raises to a crescendo, and his does too.</p><p> </p><p>“You know well enough that you’d much prefer Dylan here, wouldn’t you?” He seethes. “Haven’t you always cared a bit more for him—?”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> shut </em> up--” She shouts. “Shut <em> up, shut up!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Then she shakes her head, her eyes milky blind with anger and rage, so much so that she doesn’t think when she says the next lines in her script, the lyrics of the devil on her chest. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> God— </em> sometimes I really wish I hadn’t grown to <em> care </em> about you! You’re so— <em> infuriating!” </em> She throws up her hands in exasperation, though they both try to ignore the way they tremble.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t stop thinking only about<em> yourself </em> and your past—get it into your head that I’ve already come to terms with how <em> despicable </em>you were—“ Her laugh turns lemon sour.</p><p> </p><p>”You’re just <em> pathetically </em> insecure because you <em> still </em>think--you still think I think you’re a mo--”</p><p> </p><p>She stops. She stops and it is such an abrupt pause that they almost trip over the weight of it. She lets out a soft gasp, and her hands, her treacherous fingers, they betray her, and she reaches for the collar of her dress almost unconsciously.</p><p> </p><p>And then, to her shock, he <em> smiles. </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s not the smile she knows so well--it’s cold, it’s mocking, it’s everything she hates so much about him, everything she hates to admit she loves, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Go ahead.” He challenges, stepping closer. And closer.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Go--” </em> he surges--” <em> ahead.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>And then he is in front of her, and all she can taste on her breath is smoke, his own tongue filled with ash. </p><p> </p><p>“Go ahead--”</p><p> </p><p>“I will <em> not--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do it, Lauren.” He sneers, his lips curving, his hair falling in front of his face, framing both of them in dark mahogany, in tendrils of fear and uncertainty. </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Do it,” </em> he shouts, his voice deep and caught with rasps, with secret tremors. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Say it. Say it." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “ </em>I will not—“</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Call me a monster!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I will not!” </em>She shrieks, shrill and high and desperate.</p><p> </p><p>Finally that manages to break the glass between them, the spell they’ve managed to drown in, the discordant tune of their song.</p><p> </p><p>They both stop and stare in horror, their faces twisted. Then, with a force and speed that surprises even them, they stagger backward, with her clutching the kitchen countertop and him the head of a chair, both panting as though they’ve done something terribly exerting, like they've run a thousand miles with no water in sight.</p><p> </p><p>They look at each other, their faces strangled with hurt and blame and fear—</p><p> </p><p>“I need a moment.” She says hurriedly, darting to the entrance to the hallway, her skirts billowing about her ankles as she retreats dutifully. She throws a harried glance backward, and the look on her face is <em> horrible. </em> It <em> hurts. </em></p><p> </p><p>“I do too,” he breathes, moving in the opposite direction, making for the large doors that open to his studio, bare feet still silent like wisps of cloth even in his haste. </p><p> </p><p>He cannot give up what he knows, after all.</p><p> </p><p>He closes the door with a calm click that feels horribly out of place in the static humming behind his ears, and when he slumps down into the bench, head in his hands, he feels only nothing.</p><p> </p><p>He looks up at the unfinished canvas he has laid out, fumbling hands reaching for paints underneath the bench, fingers weak and useless, things not under his control anymore, manipulated by some other driving force, like a malicious puppeteer with only his own interests in mind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You're so--selfish. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He tries, he really does, to find a color suitable. But somehow, some way, he finds himself reaching for the very back, where he keeps the colors he doesn’t use very often, shades of wilting violet, lavender, puce and even edging on magenta. </p><p> </p><p>He stops himself. Grits his teeth. A word rings in his ears, a word he does not want to hear, a word he cannot bring himself to part his lips to say.</p><p> </p><p>What a fool he is, what a fool. Did he really think he’d be able to last, to live like he was anything but the one thing he has always hated? Did he really think--</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, harshly, tilting back his head in his chair, and lets his mind wander away from the things they normally wander to, the sound of cobblestone streets and the chirps of little doves, the scent of fresh books and paint, molten honey and the startling vermillion of a robin's plumage--</p><p> </p><p>Lauren.</p><p> </p><p>Something in him, the thing that hates him the most, doesn't let his mind stray from her.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran groans in frustration, giving up the pretense of trying to continue painting, electing instead to sit back, bury his face in his hands, elbows on his knees in supplication.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t quite know how much time manages to pass; it feels like millenia, feels like centuries of silence caused by the ceasing of a heart's rhythm, the stifling of a breath that should have been expelled. </p><p> </p><p>The only sound that permeates his senses is the soft striking of the grandfather clock outside, on its nightly routine, and the loud chime it cries at one point in the twilight marks the hour as one before midnight.</p><p> </p><p>The gongs cease, and he's about to close his eyes again, before he hears a rap at the door. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a little tune he knows like his favorite song, a beating of knuckles against wood in a steady thump, a dance like no other.</p><p> </p><p>His head turns languidly, almost not registering that there’s only one other person it could be.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens the door, he finds her standing before him, serious, solem, and her clothes exchanged.</p><p> </p><p>In place of the soft dress that had hugged her collar and draped down like dawning funeral attire to the nape of her ankles, now was a thin ivory blouse that cinched at the waist, tight black pants, and a tense look on her face that could rival even a taut bowstring. </p><p> </p><p>He suppresses a low growl when his eyes wander to her cheeks, noticing faint trails of shine on them, like rivers, imprinted in blotchy red and startling pink, and yet she has never looked more beautiful, more powerful, standing before him as a perfect equal.</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her, his hand still poised at the panes of the door. She does, too, her eyes trained on his, blue and gold meeting in perfect balance, poignant belligerence.</p><p> </p><p>Then, wordlessly, the look in her eyes untraceable, she holds out her palm.</p><p> </p><p>In it is a knife, cradled in a leather holster.</p><p> </p><p>He knows what it means.</p><p> </p><p>He nods his head, jerking it plainly in the direction of the destination he knows he will end up in, and she takes that as her cue. There is still pregnant silence as he follows her, watching her back as she makes her way down the hall, bare feet sounding on the floorboards. </p><p> </p><p>She never was able to walk as silently as he could.</p><p> </p><p>The door at the end of the hallway, once opened, reveals a landing that descends into a wide room below, more like a recess, a hollow. As the stairs creak and dust throws itself from the wooden panels, he takes in the stillness of the room, of the way knives and guards and rolls of gauze still litter themselves about the floor, an organized tornado of chaos.</p><p> </p><p>Almost immediately upon their annexation of the old Sinclair estate, they'd both decided that a training room, modeled only slightly after the old one they'd first taken blows in, would be needed; if only to keep themselves in order. But occasionally, when they both felt too wound up to articulate their grievances, they'd take to the bags of sand hung from the ceiling, the knives and the daggers hitched to the walls; and each other--the greatest vigor they could be given.</p><p> </p><p>She stops in the center of the room, lights a candle and sets it on top of a wooden box, turning back to him once it’s done. He follows her only so far, stopping when there are feet between them, ample enough space to look at her in full, watch as she tilts her chin, a ponytail of rosy scarlet tossed over her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she unsheathes her own knife. Holds it in a steady palm.</p><p> </p><p>She looks up to his face, and he nods, taking his own in his hands. It’s cold, the steel, and it bites as the blade might have if he’d tried to press it to his skin. Like he did once, a very long time ago, a picture painted in black and white--and red, too. For red was almost everything, that night.</p><p> </p><p>She parts her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Rules.” </p><p> </p><p>Her voice could almost be called reverent. He nods, and they begin their song.</p><p> </p><p>“No blood letting,” he says, his voice raspy with hours of disuse, caked around dry mourning. She nods, repeating it.</p><p> </p><p>“No blood letting.” Then, she sets her heels, the balls of her feet poised like a graceful dancer, ready to strike.</p><p> </p><p>“No headshots.” She looks pointedly up at him. He closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“No headshots.”</p><p> </p><p>Her face looks stricken, then.</p><p> </p><p>“No necks.”</p><p> </p><p>He resists the urge to finger his own collar.</p><p> </p><p><em> “No necks,” </em>he says, his voice nearly desperate. She sets her teeth, her eyes glinting--</p><p> </p><p>“And--” she pauses, looking up in steady countenance.</p><p> </p><p>This is the most important rule of all.</p><p> </p><p>“And--”</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody wins.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Nobody wins.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, with that, they set their course. </p><p> </p><p>She steps back, her fingers playing a game of strategy on the hilt of her blade, the officer again, and he falls into the motions he once cloaked himself into like a steady blanket, his stance immediately forming into assured confidence, his legs poised and ready, the assassin once more.</p><p> </p><p>They fall into their roles carefully, perfectly, like nesting dolls to their cocoons, sheaths like a second skin, like coming home to a long since abandoned house.</p><p> </p><p>And with one, final shared breath, they start off, the assassin and the officer, two lions at each other’s throats.</p><p> </p><p>It’s startling how easy it is to forget the fourth and final rule.</p><p> </p><p>After all, when two people fight for something, they always assume someone has to come out on top. That when two people love something enough to come to blows with it, they know that they will do anything to be considered in the right, the victor, the winner of the battle. </p><p> </p><p>So when Lauren and Kieran’s legs meet in midair, their bodies twisting as they clash, kick to kick, toe to toe, both blocking their hearts with their fists, they both are fighting to win.</p><p> </p><p>And when Kieran moves in with his dagger, skirting a forearm across her collar and shoulders in an attempt to get her own blade out of her vice grip, he is fighting to win. </p><p> </p><p>And when Lauren moves out the way with an indignant snarl, ducks and plants a swift heel into his knee, her favorite kiss to give, she is fighting to win. </p><p> </p><p>After all; the assassin and the officer, they have not changed. One must come out on top; that is what they were always told. </p><p> </p><p>Their wrists come together in a dangerous clash of bones, and it is then that he hears her voice again for the first time in what feels like decades, the soft chime of it nearly breathtaking, snatching the little composure and the facade of collected calm he had donned like a mask.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to stop being so <em> selfish.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He laughs harshly, his torso twisting so that he is behind her, so he can try to hold the knife up to her pretty neck and—</p><p> </p><p>“In what way am <em> I </em>the one being selfish, here?”</p><p> </p><p>She knows him by now, knows that he won’t close the extra two inches at her throat, and the dirty player she is, she uses that to her advantage, pressing closer so he moves farther, loses his balance, and she twirls away, her own body bending so she can kick her leg flat against his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“You always assume I think the absolute worst of you—you always think I’m thinking of the killer first—“</p><p> </p><p>He is too lean, too practiced even after years and years, and he manages to dodge in time, the zephyr of air from her swift heel fueling his momentum as he steps forward, knife ready to counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—you always know it’s going to be there!” He spits, huffing in frustration as she lunges out from underneath, knocking his ribs with a fist.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not something I can just--sweep under the rug and forget, <em>mon amour</em>." </p><p> </p><p>She turns on her heel, swift and sure, rounds her heel to kick him.</p><p> </p><p>But she knows where that will get her.</p><p> </p><p>He is a lightning beast, faster than currents of electricity, bolder than the bravest and most brash of falcons, and he takes up her wrists before she can swing her leg, catches her body to him and with the threat of his knife on her delicate skin, takes her down to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>It's a familiar position--a familiar end. His face, staring her down in a cage of dark light, his fingers pressing her wrists against the floor, a knife glaring at her throat, the blade kissing her milky white skin with reverence. She looks up at him in defiance, in brutal and blazing anger, because she is her own fighter, her own victor, a lepress named by her own inhibitions. </p><p> </p><p>“Lauren--” he pauses, his breath coming in ragged pants, and they are so close that she can feel the weight of it from his chest, the way it hurts to continue to do so.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t keep doing this to you.”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, tries in scores of futile attempts to snake her legs into the crook of his, flip him, gain the upper hand, but he knows his wife too well, knows that if he applies pressure she’ll stay firm, because he almost never does that--and it means she must listen.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re--I know you. I know you trust me, I know that--” He grits his teeth. “I never want to <em> hurt </em>you--”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> know.” </em> She pleads, whispers to him. “You <em> never </em>lie when you say that--”</p><p> </p><p>“But I hurt you, anyway.” He pauses. “You called me egotistical--a narcissist--”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t <em> mean--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“No.” He laughs bitterly, holds her tighter, a knee wedged between her thighs to keep her rooted to the ground, a pad of his finger drawing up to feel where her pulse beats, a rhythm and song he will always strain to hear.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s true--isn’t it. I only ever seem to hurt you--because--” </p><p> </p><p>He looks down at her, looks down at the regret on her face. </p><p> </p><p>“Because I <em> am </em>selfish--more than you.” He shakes his head. “I—I am a monst—”</p><p> </p><p>And then, he finds himself underestimating his wife again, for while he is at his most vulnerable, when his voice is the most thin with regret and pain, she takes the opportunity for what it is, snatches at it like forbidden and rotting fruit off a tree.</p><p> </p><p>She hooks her legs underneath, and he can feel her conviction, her resolve, as she twists them, his back slamming into the wood with driving force.</p><p> </p><p>She has the upper hand, now--she straddles his hips, her legs on either side of his supine form, shackles her fingers to his own wrists, holds him to the ground. Her knife is gone, somewhere, kicked to the side in favor of the influence of her own strength. </p><p> </p><p>Her hair, long since made loose by movement, hangs around them in a curtain, shielding them from the rest of the world in waterfalls of raging fire, of rosy blood, and trapping him with eyes of molten gold that he cannot hope to escape.</p><p> </p><p>He is caught, caged--but not defeated.</p><p> </p><p>Because they remember, now, that sacred rule--nobody wins between them.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, her lips parted with grief and pain and everything he has managed to cause, to carve like cold limestone into the delicate planes of her face.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> don’t, </em>Kieran--I trust you. I know you regret, I know how much you hurt--” she chokes the last part of her sentence in her throat, and he instinctively twitches his wrists, moves his legs, searching for an opening, so that he does not have to be this desperate, this vulnerable in front of her again.</p><p> </p><p>But he allows it to happen, yet. Because the assassin knows the officer--and respects her more than even that.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m--” she stops, still looking down, the sleeves of her blouse hanging loosely as she bends, presses closer and tightens her hold. Because the officer knows the assassin--and respects his right to choose his fate.</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran--” she looks down at him. “I don’t blame you for Dylan’s death.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, huffing an incredulous breath. “You <em> should-- </em> I <em> killed </em>him--”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to tell you that I’ve <em> never </em>done so.” She tilts her head, a somber look on her face. He pauses--waits for her.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m ashamed--so, horribly ashamed of that. But <em> Kieran--” </em></p><p> </p><p>She looks down, her teeth gritted so hard it looks like she’ll hurt herself. Again, his wrists twitch. She moves closer, and their bodies are flush against each other.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard. <em> It’s so hard--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Why, <em> mon amour?” </em>He breathes, his brows furrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I--” She shakes her head, a bitter laugh spilling from her lips, and he watches them intently as they pour words out, pink and lush with anger and fury, knowing that whatever she says, he will hang off of it.</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't mean what I said--" She says somberly, looking him dead in the eyes, a rueful smile rather out of place gifted to him in wrappings.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't regret loving you--I don't regret <em> you </em> , at all. I won't claim that-- <em> he-- </em>that I've forgotten him. But--"</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head closer, so there is a hairs breadth between their foreheads, and her breath hitches as he swallows, his neck and chest rippling with haggard breathing.</p><p> </p><p>"You--you're my present." She insists. "You--here with me now--that's all I want."</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> love </em>you--and I’ve forgiven you--and I--” she looks down, nudges closer, her head dipping until he is overwhelmed by honey, by the lingering scent of smoke and razed ground, beautiful hues of gold and scarlet. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> blame </em> you for <em> anything.” </em>She sobs, and it finally breaks. He can see new tears on her cheeks, dotting the flushed apples of them like spots of morning dew, and he wishes he could wipe them away, wishes she would have mercy and release his wrists, so he can bring his palms to her face, so he can place a warm hand on the small of her back to keep her as close to him as possible, to preserve the lovely feeling of her weight on top of him, commanding and forceful and all that is right. </p><p> </p><p>“I <em> love you-- </em> and that’s <em> so--” </em> she shakes her head, laughing, laughing. “ <em> Oh, </em>it’s so foolish sometimes--I would never--”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” He pants, looking up, meeting her gaze. “Are you sure--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes.” </em> she pleads, her lips warbling a steady tune. “Kieran--the only person I blame for anything is <em> him-- </em> and <em> myself--” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Don’t--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Just--”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Lauren--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Kieran.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And she does it, takes the plunge. She closes the distance, leans her head in and presses her lips to his desperately, taking, taking. Typically that is his role--the taker, the thief, the criminal. But she turns the tables, throws his life into chaos and disarray that he welcomes, welcomes--and she is a greedy thing. She takes all he has to give her--which is everything and nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>She whines in desperation, finally releasing her vice grip on his wrists in favor of cradling his jaw, snaking lithe fingers down his collar, her palms warming spots on his chest for leverage, and he feels the fabric of her shirt bunch in his own hapless hands as he reaches up with fervent desperation, pressing her close to him, feeling the ridges of her spine and the arch of her back as he settles at the small of her back, holding her close to him so she couldn't leave his side, even if she so wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>He growls as she moves lower, sinful teeth nipping at his neck, and he surges upwards steadily until he is upright, she in his lap, still clutching her like she is his lifeline, his only safeguard. And she, too, moves with him, like a fluid river with no end, tightens her grip on him as he shifts his legs, supporting the both of them on steady feet.</p><p> </p><p>Her legs are in his hands, her arms around his neck and scrabbling for purchase against his back, her lips on his, ghosting over his skin like taunting dove feathers, and his heart, his heart is hers again, when she pulls back ever so faintly.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Bed?” </em>she questions, voice stolen of breath.</p><p> </p><p>He nods, smiling a little against the whisper of her kiss-bitten lips. “Bed.”</p><p> </p><p>And he kisses her desperately again, moving, rising on swift and desperate feet, her body held tightly to his.</p><p> </p><p>Thus, something stretched to snapping is made whole again, threads restitched. Because that is the way of war, the manner of reparation.</p><p> </p><p>They come out of that fight bruised, sore, swollen with pride and rage--and yet.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody has won.</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>The next morning comes with startling clarity, like the reflections of a mirror stained with soap and cloth, all at once hazy and calm, the kind of calm that comes on the heels of tears.</p><p> </p><p>She wakes in their bed, curled in a cocoon of sheets and warmth, of the lingering scent of poppies and mint, paint and something else entirely--home. </p><p> </p><p>She hisses as she turns in her place, noting with vague pride the soreness of her legs, her limbs. She reaches her hand up to her neck, trails it down to her shoulder--presses into a tiny bruise with some sort of satisfaction.</p><p> </p><p>He’s always careful; he never touches her throat, never dares to mark it, even after the war is over, even after the scars should have healed. And while a part of it hurts, the way he touches her like she is glass that will shatter if he holds her too tight; the other part of her is grateful, for his care, his patience.</p><p> </p><p>She flings a hand listlessly over to the other side of the bed, first searching for him, and then, finding only a drape of comforters still sewn with lingering warmth, searching for the little stem she has come to expect from his absence.</p><p> </p><p>She does find it. </p><p> </p><p>And then finds something else, her train of thoughts halting with a blinding shriek as her fingers find the stem of another flower, twined with the daisy like a braid.</p><p> </p><p>She shoots up, takes the thing in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> didn’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s been a while—she didn’t know how she’d missed her old friend. The lavender hues, the wide, curving stalk, it taunts her--though it was her companion, it was never particularly nice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She leaps out of bed, hearing springs moan with her frantic movement, still holding onto the flower with a vice grip.</p><p> </p><p>She barely has time to throw one of his shirts over her bare frame, buttoning it only halfway in her haste as she throws the door open, thunders down the hall and the stairs, taking two at a time as she races into the kitchenette, her breath coming in short gasps.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a Saturday, and he has nowhere else to be--so she finds him, a picture of what--if she hadn’t known any better--could have been interpreted as calm, serene apathy, as he cradles a steaming mug in his hands, his legs crossed carelessly on the chair.</p><p> </p><p>He looks up when he hears her entrance, grandiose as it is, and offers a pathetic little half smile, knowing and distant.</p><p> </p><p>She holds up the purple hyacinth. </p><p> </p><p>It’s an accusation, it’s a confrontation. It’s a plea. It’s <em> his </em> bane, <em> his </em>enemy, and yet—</p><p> </p><p>And yet for her—</p><p> </p><p>He falters, flinches, looks down.</p><p> </p><p>“You—”</p><p> </p><p>He sneaks a glance, and when he does he finds her looking at him with an emotion too palpable to be given the grace of a name, too real to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs, a smooth tilt of a shoulder that betrays all to her, more than words would.</p><p> </p><p>She drops the flower. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh<em> --Kieran—” </em></p><p> </p><p>In an instant she has thrown herself at him, her figure colliding with his as he encases her in his arms, almost on instinct. She straddles his hips on the chair, buries her head in his shoulder briefly before pulling back, raining kisses both bruising like severe storms and light like ghosts on his face, his cheeks and eyelids, his lips and the edges of his jaw.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m sorry--I’m sorry--” </em></p><p> </p><p>She cries it out to him, says it in punctuation, and a throaty sound escapes him as he draws her closer, cradles her in frantic arms.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Lauren--” </em>he draws back, holding her face steady. “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, a watery laugh bubbling to the surface. <em> “No--I’m so--so sorry.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She whispers. “I’m sorry--I don’t think you’re a monster, Kieran—the furthest thing. I don’t—<em> please </em>believe me--”</p><p> </p><p>He kisses her to stop the tirade, and when he pulls back, there is a faint hint of the smile she knows on his own lips. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t need an ability--I know.” He looks up at her, his face bearing a watery smile meant only for her. “I <em> believe </em> you, <em> mon cœur </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He pauses. Then:</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, too. I know you love me, I know you don’t blame me--I know you’re everything good in the world and I’m--”</p><p> </p><p>She repays the favor with a light kiss on his nose, a batting of his arm before she is pulling off of him, a joyous smile on her face. </p><p> </p><p>“I forgive you, <em> mon bonheur. </em> I <em> do.” </em>She covers her face, wipes the faint tears that have beaded at the edges with a shaky hand.</p><p> </p><p>He offers her some coffee, and she obliges, filling a mug with it and adding two sugars, wanting to be awake for this.</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence, the only sound the faint ticking of the grandfather clock outside.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she breaks it, takes to the quiet with a bat and splinters it, keeps it that way as her voice snakes through the silent thrum of the morning, hazed with sleep and exhaustion and the faint impression of tears.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you should do it, Kieran.” </p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him, smiling at the incredulous expression on his face. “Take the extra hours. If they help--if you want to--that’s all I’ll care about.”</p><p> </p><p>She shifts her gaze. “I just--I <em> care. </em>I don’t want you overworking yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, and in her peripheral she can see him lift a hand in acknowledgment.</p><p> </p><p>“You realize that’s a two way street, officer?” He asks, all seriousness. “You overwork yourself--I just—“ he looks down.</p><p> </p><p>“Your eye bags are unsightly, officer”</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, incredulous, knowing his arrogance like a home. Then, she nods solemnly. “I promise--I’ll try to come to bed at a more reasonable hour.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, she stops, her voice faltering. </p><p> </p><p>“How did we let it get so <em> far?” </em>She questions, a hand over her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs. “We’re both a little too tense, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, looking over at him. “If I ever get too out of line—stop me.”</p><p> </p><p>He reciprocates, a twinkle in his eyes. “Likewise. You can tell me—I’ll stop.” He pauses.</p><p> </p><p>“Without hesitation.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, he holds out his palm. </p><p> </p><p>She can still see the imprint on it, of her mark, the first one she ever gave to him, blade and steel and iron, blood dripping like pressed cloth, like raindrops onto window panes and long hours spent with him, him, him.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal, officer?”</p><p> </p><p>She takes it, because that is what they do. They make compromises, they make deals. </p><p> </p><p>They mend.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal, subordinate.”</p><p> </p><p>She leans across the table, taking his face in her gentle hands and kissing his lips lightly. He closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of it, of the world made whole again.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she stops.</p><p> </p><p>“Where <em> did </em>you get that, anyhow?” She points to the neglected flower. He balks.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah--Lana’s planter. The one she keeps tucked away in her chamber—”he looks down. “So I won’t see.”</p><p> </p><p>She scoffs. “I thought as much.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll get her a new one.”</p><p> </p><p>“That would be wise, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>They laugh, hyacinth forgotten on the floor behind them. It’s not needed—their apologies are marked in more than just screaming violet, but blood and water too, in their inhibitions and their goals.</p><p> </p><p>And the assassin and the officer—they are just two people, again, sharing more than just a cup of coffee, sugar cubes and smiles, a soft morning on the heels of a storm, a hyacinth, leveraged apologies. No; they share everything and nothing, all they have to give to each other.</p><p> </p><p>Above all else, before anything, they are partners, after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>I’m so sorry, please forgive me</b> ;)</p><p>Ahh but you know I had to do it to em.’ They’re Lauki after all—they fight :)</p><p>*concerned parent voice* ok</p><p>So; couples have disagreements. They argue, yes. HOWEVER—FIGHTS are not something that should be constant or necessary. Resolution of conflict is key; things should never be allowed to go as far as Lauki let it go. </p><p>Here, Lauki is<br/>a) traumatized<br/>b) able to resolve their issues. They are adults and even though it may seem excessive—sparring is how they resolve things. That’s their way of de-escalating conflict. And they DO talk while they do so.</p><p>Screaming matches and insults are NOT aspects of a healthy relationship. Disagreements are fine—fighting is not. Please know this; I feel like a lot of fanfiction glorifies fighting, and that’s not what I want to spread.</p><p>With that being said—this is as angsty as TLoF will get. But now that you have a taste of what I can give you—hm. Maybe you should prepare yourself for when things WON’T get resolved so easily 😌✨</p><p>Love you all so much! Comments/kudos are purple hyacinths &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha </p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Phlox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Phlox: good partnership, harmony</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lauren Sinclair-White would really, truly like to dig her own grave and die on it before she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>admit that she’d gotten them lost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Darling—how long have you been in the APD for?” Her husband taunts from behind her, the infuriating man doing absolutely nothing to assuage her ever-growing fear that the corridor was, in fact, just leading them to the exact same one they just left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren grit her teeth as she trudged forward. "Long </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I would hope."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Then how on </span>
  <em>
    <span>earth</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you manage--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Kieran, my dearest, </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling </span>
  </em>
  <span>husband--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No need to lay it on so thick, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon amour--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If you shut up and don't prod about this incident then perhaps we'll find our way out of it easier,” she hissed in a stage whisper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran sighed, though it was punctuated with light affection as she continued down the hallway, scanning the walls for a door that could hopefully lead to the outer gardens of the Ardhalis Grand Ballroom, the place in which the annual APD ball was always duly held, and which the Chief of Police, someone who should have known how the building worked, was currently lost in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they passed by the same ostentatious statue of the Taking of Persephone they'd encountered for nearly five times now, Lauren finally conceded to the obvious, stopping abruptly and causing her husband, who had been following close on her heels, to nearly run into her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Alright, fine." She concedes dejectedly, hands falling in limp defeat at her sides. "I have no idea what I'm doing."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran threw back his head and laughed, and as the sound reverberated throughout the impossibly long corridor, she turned defiantly on her heels, crossing her arms in irritation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Like you're doing anything to help!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh--no no. I'll admit to that, at least." He leaned forward, taking her by the elbows as he looked down at her in amusement, his eyes dancing with glee. She pouted, huffing at the soft mockery she was being presented with instead of—what she wanted—sympathy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But at least I haven't been going to these events, in this exact location, for my whole life!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighed, looking downcast. "I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>clue what I'm doing--and I can't believe it!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gestured wildly to the sea of nebulous hallways surrounding them, nearly knocking over a planter of the numerous Phlox bushels that had been spread about the building for the celebration.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I should </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>by now, how to get out of this place!" She despaired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran chuckled again, drawing her forward before planting an affectionate kiss on her forehead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well, darling--don't beat yourself up over it." He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. "We all have our blips, sometimes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren furrowed her brows, her voice a syrupy, sardonic drawl. "Would you like to assist me, dear? Or will I have to be the only useful one in this partnership once again--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--” he looked around, a frown forming on his face as he looked at the various points he could take. He cocked his head, his eyes roaming over the doorways and the long stretches swathed in dull maroon wool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure I can play detective—if only for tonight!” He looked down at her eagerly. “I’m sure if we just--go down </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> hallways--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to rely on </span>
  <em>
    <span>process of elimination--?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clearly nothing else is working, officer.” He waved a hand, twisting abruptly and starting down in the opposite direction. Lauren followed him warily, adjusting the tuck of her bodice with hesitant fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gown she wore was not suitable for wearing for more than an hour consecutively; but was still enough to move swiftly in, if need be. If it had been up to her she would have opted out of the bronze waves of gossamer that flitted down to her ankles and cupped her hips and waist none-too-gently in favor of black pants and a simple blouse; but it was not up to her, it was up to the decrees that dictated that the young, spirited woman who held the title of highest officer in the city must look like a pristine statuette at every social gathering, practical or otherwise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, it wasn’t all bad. It had been worth it to see the look on Kieran’s face when she’d walked out of their shared closet in the thing, soft rouge clutching the apples of her cheeks and a slight, knowing smile on her face when she’d found him staring, eyes wide in admiration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a hard left abruptly, his eyes roving critically over the new scenery before them--as new as it could be called, looking much like the previous renditions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were no windows in the hall, only small candle holders bearing sticks of rosy wax, the light wavering on the wick casting dancing flickers of fire as they walked down the long hall. She could hear their twin steps; hers pronounced and confident, slight clicks of her heels like the heartbeat of a clock; his silent and unheard, still a panther even with the soft treads of his polished shoes on carpet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And if this reaches a dead end, what are you going to do, exactly?” She asked, her voice a quiet reprieve in the muted silence of the hall, the only other competing sound being the faint din of voices coming from the ballroom, where the party was still raging.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--we’ll turn around and try again, I suppose,” he replies contemplatively, his eyes still ahead of him. He rolls his neck to stave off the slight tension, the collar of his dress jacket quivering as he tugs on it lightly. She knew he was displeased with her instance that he should keep it snug around the dips of his neck--but she’d tightened the fabric until it fit snugly and remarked that it was good to appear just in the slightest stuffy, sometimes, if only to keep up appearances.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She raises an eyebrow, speeds up her pace until they walk side by side, her arms crossed around her elbows. “That doesn’t sound too efficient--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just let the great detective work, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He tilts his head back, lets candlelight wash over the planes of his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right--” she drawls, her tone cloying. “I’d let this great detective waste our time, if I don’t interfere.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “Well--wouldn’t you rather like to be lost with his person, hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to her. “After all, I’m sure he’s better company than the stuffy old coots in the ballroom who vy after your pensive eyes, Chief Sinclair.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She considers him for a few moments, her gaze thoughtful. Then, she shrugs, her lips curving in a soft smile she could not restrain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t say that’s not true.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she looks over she sees her husband has turned away, trying to hide the little flush that has begun to paint his face under a wide, impish smirk. She stifled a breathless chuckle, instead nudging him with an elbow, her jab fierce and forceful, but affectionate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let it get to your </span>
  <em>
    <span>massive ego--” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughs, tilting his head around the curve of another corridor, hair falling in front of his face as he inspected the hallway. As before, it was deliciously empty, the wide, vacuous space of the Grand Ballroom pathways nearly draining of life, if not for steady comfort and company of the presence beside her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t I won’t! Shall we try--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” she peers over his shoulder, her lips curving in a thoughtful pout. “I don’t think I’ve seen that painting of Liberty, yet--so it’s a new hallway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then let’s--!” And he starts off, quickly, Lauren reaching out a hand for the crook of his elbow as they walk together in time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wide walls of the hallway stretch into more rows of doors, tables lined with busts of miscellaneous figures and the ever present shadow of phlox vases lining the path like hedges in a wide maze of rose bushes. Lauren surveys the doors pasting themselves one after another in neat rows, searching for one that might lead to the marble steps outside, or—even more mercifully—the back gate into the hyacinth garden, so they could leave without being detected or accosted by partygoers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alas--” she hears him say dejectedly, and snaps back to find that they’ve reached another dead end, only a single brass candle holder marking the abrupt halt to the walkway, mocking in the way the flame dances like a fluid swan across the wick steadily thrumming its way to melted pools of wax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose we’ll have to turn around, then!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I’d known we’d be here all night I’d have at least brought my shawl,” Lauren deadpans, her voice sullen as Kieran tugs her arm in an about turn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>faith in me, darling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--” she sighed. “If I recall, you once got us lost in the dregs of the seventh precinct back when--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be used as a point of reference,” He scoffs. “I was young, and--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Implying you’ve gotten any wiser these past eight years--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>darling!” He makes a grand show of looking affronted, snaking a stray hand around her waist to pull her tauntingly closer, the calluses on his palms from charcoal inks and paintbrushes catching on the delicate stitching of her bodice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“How you wound me!”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha! Liar!” She pokes his ribs as he retreats once more, the sounds of their rancour deafening in the somber quiet of the halls. “One thing’s for sure--you haven’t gotten much better at deception, subordinate!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, would you--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just then, to their shock and surprise, out from the turn of the hallway, a figure comes bumbling to the forefront, the scent of fresh bread and chives following her, marching through the air in lilting wisps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The young girl couldn’t be much older than seventeen, with a mop of unruly dark curls matting to freckled skin and shoulders, a soft, petulant look to her round face, and wide, hazel-specked eyes that settled with harried clarity on the two as she maneuvered around the box of Phlox bushels she clutched in her arms. She stifled her mutterings as she locked her gaze with the Sinclair-Whites, her expression shifting into one of acute surprise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh--! I didn’t--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice is boisterous and loud, even in breathless embarrassment, and it rasps in the back of her throat, like the pangs of a youthful timbre. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stalk of Phlox blossoms tumbles out of the very apex of the crate, falling to the carpet in a drizzle of loose petals. Kieran moves to pick it up, placing it back in the crate with polite interest, a little smile on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry! We didn’t know someone was going to--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh” She makes to wave her hands, then realizes belatedly that she can’t--and ends up swinging the crate until it almost hits Kieran square in the jaw. He dodges with familiar alacrity, his movements still the practiced assurance of one who’s held more ultimatums in his fleeting life than possibly feasible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My god--” she stops, a flush rising to her cheeks, all scarlet floods of embarrassment. “You’re quick, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Monsieur! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Word, I would have taken your nose clean off--!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“True, true--but I’m quick, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mademoiselle!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kieran laughed, his face light and demure. Lauren shook her head at his arrogance, turning to the young girl with a look of mild interest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you need some help with that?” She inquires, indicating the way the girl’s thin fingers strained slightly around the rough wooden handles of the large crate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head vigorously. “No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame, </span>
  </em>
  <span>really. That’s kind of you, but--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She holds up the box in demonstration. “It’s my job--to get these to the South end of the ballroom! I have to do this on my own--so my father said.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses. Then, she groans in frustration, laughing a little through rueful shakes of her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But </span>
  <em>
    <span>evidently </span>
  </em>
  <span>this isn’t it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Kieran looks interested now, his eyebrows raising. “You’re lost, too?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks at him in awe. “Oh! You as well--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed, tilting his gaze to look at his wife from under dancing sparks of sapphire. “Well--my lovely wife here’s gotten us into a bit of a predicament--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kieran--” Lauren huffed, indignant hands on her hips as she turned back to the girl , her voice softening into mocking disbelief. “Can you imagine--you’re leaving the main ballroom, right? And the corridor to your left looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>alarmingly </span>
  </em>
  <span>like the one on the right--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, listen to her make excuses!” Kieran laughed as he came over to her, looping an arm around her shoulders as she made vigorous and rousing protests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The girl began to laugh, lilting giggles that filled the hallway and echoed off the chamber walls. She doubled over the crate, her shoulders shaking with mirth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s rich! You’re both very cute.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stopped, embarrassed slightly at being labeled ‘cute’ by a girl nearly half their ages. Then, Kieran joined in on the amusement, the deep timbre of his chuckle a soothing harmony to the high-pitched laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I should say thanks--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mademoiselle…?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She brightened. “Carlotta! Carlotta Tavers!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stopped, looking down balefully at the wooden crate in her hands. “I would put out a hand--but they’re sort of--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Full, yes.” Kieran waved a hand, bowing slightly. Lauren dipped low in an acknowledgement, humming slightly as she inclined her head in greeting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t want you to let that get away from you, again!” She laughed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carlotta nodded, her lips parted. “I'm here with my father--we're part of the waitstaff." She stops, looking down at her attire, drab as it was in the face of the expensive waves of Lauren's gold and umber gown. She laughed nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's my first time at one of these things--and look at the situation I've gotten myself in!" She lamented. “Now I understand why Father didn’t really want me to--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shook her head reassuringly. "Really, Carlotta. It's alright."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled, throwing a keen glance at her husband. "This certainly isn't even the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fifth </span>
  </em>
  <span>time I've come here--and look at us now!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ah!" Carlotta smiled gratefully. “That's a bit reassuring!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she bit her lip. "...My friends call me Lottie, by the way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran tilted his head, smirking amicably. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Are</span>
  </em>
  <span> we your friends now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mademoiselle </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lottie?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie nodded vigorously, gesturing to the empty hallway. “We’re lost together--my mother always says that when two strangers are in the same boat, they become friends!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked between the both of them. “Ah! I suppose three, though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren laughed, appreciating the young woman’s infectious energy; even if she could foresee she wouldn’t be especially helpful to their endeavors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So--Lottie.” Lauren began, her voice probing, light. “Got any clue on where to proceed?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The young woman looked down at the flowers in her hands, her eyes wide with consideration. Then, her face brightened, and she looked up at them eagerly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not a clue!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran sighed miserably, shaking his head. “Right—not the best place to start.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren tilted her head. “Where did you last try?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie hummed, looking behind her. “Well--I just came from there--no luck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She clicked her tongue in interest. “Only cobwebs and brooms. Oh! And a whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>load </span>
  </em>
  <span>of hyacinths.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked at them, either not noticing or not caring about the seeping facade of stony calm in their faces. “I don’t know why they insist on so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>purple--</span>
  </em>
  <span>I know it’s the royal flower and all—but the color’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn </span>
  </em>
  <span>awful—</span>
  <em>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s--” Lauren cut in, waving a hand--”disregard that, then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snuck her fingers through Kieran’s discreetly, pulsing once in a form of silent assurety, of communication. He squeezed back, a comforting signal that left her in relative comfort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can try the opposite direction, then--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Actually--” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran’s voice hesitates through the din, and both women turn to him in confusion. His face is unreadable, impassive, but his eyes are deceptively keen, and that reassures Lauren somewhat, that the slight ice in her bones is for naught.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would actually think we should try back there, again.” He places the hand not looped through hers in a pocket of his slacks, flicking his head towards the aforementioned hallway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Lottie looks curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--” he stops. “Think about it. The hyacinths--they’ve probably come from the garden, outside--that’s at the South entrance.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren gasps. “Oh! You’re right, I think.” She looks up at him, her eyes glinting with understanding. “They’d keep the flowers there only if the garden were nearby--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly, officer!” He smiles, though slightly tense. “It should connect to the South entrance, some way.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, the great detective has earned some of his reputation!” She tries, and he does smile genuinely at that. He throws his head back, lets loose a hoot of laughter, and she is relieved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, he turns to Lottie, gesturing with a hand. “Perhaps you missed something, Lottie. Shall we try again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods vigorously, her heels already pivoting in their place, the dull swamp grey of her skirts billowing about her ankles in whirls of terry cloth as she makes off in the direction she had come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Sinclair-Whites follow after her dutifully, their steps light and refreshed with the promise of escape. Lauren sighs, regretting that she ever managed to get them into this mess in the first place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Buck up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cœur.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She hears her husband whisper, patting her elbow. “I won’t blame you for this down the line, rest assured.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice of you,” she batted at him, her voice laced with withering sarcasm.”Maybe once we get out of this I should reevaluate </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly told us to take that right turn two hours ago--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Really.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is it!” Lottie announced, cutting off their banter with an oblivious tilt of her head. She reached out a foot to nudge the edge of the doorframe they had stopped before, revealing a room filled with organized bushels of the royal flower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran stopped, hiding the harsh set of his jaw by surveying the area around them. Lauren hastily shut the door, nudging Lottie to move towards where her husband was now contemplating the two exits from their place in the corridor, the fork marked by a planter of Phlox blossoms, as well as a bust of Napoleon, his vapid carving bearing down on them severely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"There must be a direct way to get to this room from the hyacinth garden, if there are so many in there." He says quietly, his voice faint and thoughtful. Lauren nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She moved over to him, scuffing the carpet with a heel, her eyes glinting with success. Where the right hallway still held the brilliant hues of the maroon wool decking the floor, the left hallway's material was washed with a layer of dirt, bleached slightly beige with an amalgamation of faded boot marks, leaving impressions cast in mud on the otherwise pristine rug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If I had anything to say about it--" she turned to her two companions, her voice triumphant, "I'd place my bets on this!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran's eyes shone with similar victory, and Lottie looked on in admiration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's like Holmes and Watson! Why--" she shook her head. "You two must be some damn good detectives."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gasped. "Oh! Do you two work together?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran looked back at her over his shoulder, laughing. "No, no! I've got nothing to my name--I’m only a detective in spirit."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jerked his thumb over at his wife. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"She's </span>
  </em>
  <span>the great one, here."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie nodded, smiling. "Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>you're </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Watson."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren let loose a hoot of laughter, a flush rising to her cheeks at the jive, and she saw Kieran's glowering look well through the hand he ran through his hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well--! Yes, subor--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Let's--!" He clapped his hands, cutting off the accusatory nickname—"start off. It's running rather late."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie dithered, her face setting in a frantic grimace, her hair bobbing over her shoulders as she shook her head. "Father's going to be--terribly upset."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighed. "My first time waiting on an APD ball--and I've gone and misplaced myself."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren hummed thoughtfully, turning to her kindly. "Well--Lottie."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shared a knowing smirk with her, winked. "Nobody has to...</span>
  <em>
    <span>know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>right?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie looked up, surprised. "Oh! You--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran put a finger up to his lips, dodging a Phlox planter as he continued down the hallway. "We're good at keeping secrets, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mademoiselle."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gave her a wink himself. "Trust us--we won't tell a soul.” He titled his head towards her winningly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie looked delighted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you--</span>
  </em>
  <span>oh!” She frowned. “How rude of me--I never asked your names!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren smiled. “More rude of </span>
  <em>
    <span>us--</span>
  </em>
  <span>for not introducing ourselves.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gestured to herself. “You can just call me Lauren--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She moved to her husband. “--that’s Kieran.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pleased to meet you!” Kieran said lightly, an impish grin on his face. Lottie nodded eagerly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right! A pleasure.” She grinned, a little gap in her teeth showing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran turned to Lauren, his brows knitted together. “Are you sure this is the right way—?” He pointed to where the hallway seemed to be leading into a separate room entirely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren nodded. “Look—it’s probably just another checkpoint before the hall opens up to the back entrance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I don’t trust a word you say, after—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>come </span>
  </em>
  <span>on subordinate.” The affectionate name slipped out with ease, like a puzzle piece slotting into place on her tongue. “Cut me some slack.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, right—perhaps I shall let up.” He threw up his hands in supplication. “But it’s only because I’m fond of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They walked in silence for a few moments, the only sound being the soft treads of their shoes, and the girl behind them shuffling the weight of the Phlox crate in her fingers. Then:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why do you call him ‘subordinate,’ if you don’t work together?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The innocent question echoed off the walls in resounding bursts, the vast emptiness of the space burgeoning the rapid colloquy of sound. They both turned, stared at Lottie as she cocked her head, obliviously inquisitive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well—I mean.” She began—“you’re married. Seems a bit strange of a nickname.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren laughed nervously, while Kieran rubbed the back of his neck. They shared a searching, clandestine look, and he turned back to the girl with a schooled expression of nonchalance placed on his features. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well—it’s a long story, really.” He said, fingers at his chin in dismissal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Lauren pursed her lips, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Really? I think it’s rather simple—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled coyly. “Well, you said so as much yourself—he’s the Watson, here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran balked. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that so—</span>
  <em>
    <span>subordinate?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She turned to him slyly, mockingly, a hand slung through his elbow as he grumbled. “Clearly we’ve already established I’m the more useful one—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>where you’d be without me?” He puts a hand up to his mouth. “That’s right—</span>
  <em>
    <span>lost!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gasps, affronted. “Really—you deserve </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of this for what you’re accusing me of—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lottie, my dear girl—“ he turns to her, lips quirking in delicious retaliation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jerked a thumb towards his wife. “When you ever get married—if you wish to, that is—</span>
  <b>
    <em>don’t </em>
  </b>
  <b>marry such a </b>
  <b>
    <em>stubborn—“</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, now you’re being unfair.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She waved a hand at him. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>as bad as me—!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that’s so, officer—but at least I admit to it—!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie coughed, and the two of them stopped their railing banter, turning to her apologetically. She shook her head, giggling slightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So—Lauren.” She stopped. “You’re an officer? I should have guessed—this is the APD ball, after all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren hummed. “Well—not exactly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie looked confused. “Oh? But—“ she turned to Kieran, a question detectable in the way her hazel eyes shone. Kieran was quick to explain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She used to be one—when we met.” He turned to her, smiling. “It’s a habit I haven’t exactly broken.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah!” Lottie smiled knowingly. “Then—what are you now? A detective?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren dithered a little. “Well—I’m…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Here!” Kieran exclaimed, excitement evident in his tone. When she turned to look, there was the grand brocade decking the frame of the Southern entrance. Surrounded on either side by crawling rose trellises, the side that was missing Phlox blossoms in its holder was immediately pounded upon by a relieved Lottie, who set about dutifully arranging the flowers. Her fingers were slight with clumsy inexperience, but she managed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren sighed in relief when Kieran pushed open the handle, feeling the cool chill of the late winter air waft over them like cool water. Lottie straightened when she was done with her ministrations, bowing to them both in eager thanks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you—the both of you.” She straightened. “I’ll be sure to remember this—!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran waved a hand kindly. “Think nothing of it! We’re friends, aren’t we?” He teased, throwing her own words back at her, a wink fluttering over his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren smiled at his amiability, his ease with others. She was glad he was able to find that, that little bit of him that could still converse without feeling the need for something more, ulterior motives that laced behind genuine amity. She patted his arm lightly, her fingers finding purchase on his shoulder as they turned to exit the ballroom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, just as they were about to part, they heard Lottie’s footsteps stop abruptly, halting their trajectory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned on her heel, her eyes alight with incredulity and shock. She pointed an accusatory finger at Lauren.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren Sinclair? Or--Sinclair-White?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren, taken aback briefly, smiled rather abstractedly. “I am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh—!” Lottie gasped, a worried palm swiping at her forehead. “My father—he made me memorize a list of the guests—how could I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly—?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stopped, looking horrified. “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>god—</span>
  </em>
  <span>I made the Chief of Police—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren was quick to stave her ramblings. “No! I assure you, it was no trouble—!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighed, glancing over at her husband to find him staring at her in rising mirth, irritating twinkles in his probing gaze. “Besides—if even </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can manage to get lost, here—I wouldn’t think any less of you for it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lottie still looked embarrassed, but more reassured than before. She nodded slightly, dipping her head low. “I’m still—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Think nothing of it—like she said.” Kieran cut in, his voice lilting and soft. Lottie nodded, running her hands over her skirts self-consciously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, again.” She stopped, then smiled, the characteristic curve of her wide mouth comforting. “Have a wonderful night!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cocked her head. “You both work well together—even if it’s a bit…” she trailed off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stared. Then, they began to laugh, their twin chuckles ringing off the halls, one high and tinkling, like soft bells, the other deep and soothing, like a cello note sounding in the wide hall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess that’s so!” Lauren said, still laughing as she looked an arm through her husband’s elbow, bidding goodbye to their young companion as the doors to the ballroom closed behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stepped out into the brisk February air, and immediately Lauren had to clutch at her shoulders, suppressing a shiver as the wind traveled up her exposed skin, carving goosebumps where the gold trim of her dress didn’t shield her from the cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This did not go unnoticed by Kieran, who shrugged off his inky fleece coat, offering it to her with a small smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll need it more than I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren made to protest, but he picked at the collar of his dress jacket in demonstration. “No worries. I have this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped. “Can I let go of this thing, now--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren laughed, nodding, and he barely waited for her assent before he thumbed the buttons off, exposing the curve of his throat to the winter air. She shook her head with exasperation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--I look better, don’t I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nodded reluctantly, assenting to his qualms, as she tucked herself into his black jacket, encasing herself in warmth. It still smelled like him, like poppies and the faint hint of a subtle cologne, and she buried her face in the collar as wisps of her breath sounded from her lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should have brought my </span>
  <em>
    <span>shawl—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>she muttered—“but </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>said I wouldn’t need it—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey—! I couldn’t have known!” He protested vehemently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“True, I guess.” She shrugged, merely burrowing deeper into the warm fabric.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She frowned in concern when they walked down the pathway, noting the roving fields of hyacinths that stretched all the way down the far gate, violet hues clear even in the cold wash of the moonlight. She looked up at her husband, but he merely shook his head, looping an arm through hers reassuringly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll go around the side.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And they began the steady trek back to the gate, their steps in time, their breaths curling in wispy pools in the night air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren groaned. “Kym and Will are </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to let me hear the end of this if I told them—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran laughed, patting her hand gently as he bent to look her in the eye. “It’s alright.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He winked. “It’ll stay between the two of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled. “I thank you for your discretion, dear—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—but that </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> give me full permission to tease you about it, darling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please.” She huffed. “Let it be for the record that we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>hopeless, back there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” He hummed. “I thought it went swimmingly—with Lottie’s help, of course.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smirked down at her, nudging her lightly as they walked together under shards of moonlight. “We </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>make a good team, no?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled knowingly. “Yes, I suppose we do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They didn’t speak for a long while. Then, Kieran cleared his throat, looking down at his wife inquiringly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you...particularly tired, after that?” He asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She made to say that yes, she was, but then stopped to really consider the query. She decided that no, she really wasn’t—her limbs were still alive with energy, and she felt awake enough due to the small amount of wine she’d managed to pinch in the down time of the hectic ball.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She said as much, and Kieran nodded in agreement. “I’m not faring too bad, either.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hummed thoughtfully, looking down at where his coat sleeves billowed over her wrists. “I didn’t really get to have much fun with you tonight—aside from our little—</span>
  <em>
    <span>escapade.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed. “True. In between all the lame conversing I had to endure and the snubbed looks I got from people who didn’t know who I was or who I was married to—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned to her. “I didn’t get much time with you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “So—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked up at the moon’s position in the sky, settled amongst glinting stars. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What time is it, really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran pointed to her pockets. “My watch—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She fished it out of the left hand pocket, looping the chain around her fingers and flicking open the gold lid, checking the position of the ornate hands. He looked over her shoulder and nodded in satisfaction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s only half past nine—not too late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked up at him, a curious twinkle in her eyes. “That café in the seventh—the one that has that nice blackberry tart—think it’s still open?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled, a wide show of teeth that had her reeling from his infectious happiness. She leaned into him as he tilted his head in the direction of the seventh precinct. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t we go and see, officer? It’ll be an adventure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled. “Indeed, subordinate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, her tone changed, and she nudged him with her hip. “Just—don't get us lost again, this time!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His resounding groan was worth the carefully formulated jabs, and as the partners disappeared behind the large bars of the gate, crawling with inlaid Phlox engravings, they knew one thing for certain:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them would live it down. And that would be alright, because in the end, they could extricate themselves of anything. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here’s some nice healing after the Oof I gave yo last chapter. Yw yw </p><p>Not tooo hyped about this chapter? I tried to focus more on dialogue and banter lol but here it is, for your consumption. Please enjoy! </p><p>Try and recall where this was referenced in AAoCaA, if you dare ;)</p><p>Comments/kudos are Phlox flowers! &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Coriander</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Coriander: Lust</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was too hot.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran did like to think of himself as someone thoroughly practiced in restraint. Which is why he finds it deeply embarrassing how thick the urge to bury his face in his hands and sigh with tense exasperation swells in his limbs.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—<em> so </em> sorry about this, <em> Professeur—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran stifled the slight grimace begging to be expressed on his lips, merely settling back into his desk chair with a creak and shooting Colin a vaguely sympathetic and reassuring glance.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, kid—I’m just here to help, you know that.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin nodded reluctantly, looking down at the thesis paper in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>A dark and unsympathetic night had descended on the last day of the exam season, leaving the teacher and one last student to toil by the light of the electric lamp well into hours that should have seen the both of them home.</p><p> </p><p>And it was hot. The heat of high summer, oppressive and buzzing with cicada static, and unbearably stifling.</p><p> </p><p>It was really too hot. At home it was always cool, a soft breeze somehow finding its way through the house without fail; but here it felt like the air was stagnant, never moving and remaining perpetually in swirling heat. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran stifled a longing sigh at the thought of home—where he should be. It had been three long days of non-stop work, marking final exams with streaks of red, falling into bed long after Lauren had, barely able to fling an arm around her, turn onto his side and close his eyes before dawn would break again.</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, fingering his collar as he shuffled papers around his desk, clearing the space for Colin to hand him the essay he’d written. Heaving a heavy breath through his nose, he once again had to finger his collar slowly, to try and abate the muggy blanket that had descended on the classroom, even with the open windows.</p><p> </p><p>It was too hot.</p><p> </p><p>“The <em> piece </em>turned out well, at least.” Kieran muttered, holding up Colin’s final exam to the lamplight. It was an abstract painting, reds and blues and purples coalesced into a square board of stretched canvas, geometric planes and wide strokes forming an almost-picture, of something nearly identifiable, if only you could bring your tongue to formulate a feeling, desecrate the blind emotion with words.</p><p> </p><p>Colin let out a sheepish laugh. “Yes...I actually admit—I had fun.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran smiled and cocked an eyebrow smugly, and Colin had the decency to look abashed.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean—listen.” He protested. “I hated <em> looking </em> at abstract, yes—still sort of do, but <em> that doesn’t mean I can’t—“ </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Hey.” </em> Kieran laughs, stopping him. “I understand. I’m glad, at the very least, I don’t have to sit with a <em> miserable </em> student after hours.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin cringed slightly, and Kieran grimaced, his eyes downcast. Then, he looked up determinedly.</p><p> </p><p>“Just—what else did you need?”</p><p> </p><p>Colin leapt upward, motioning with a finger and running to where he’d placed his bag on the floor, beginning to rifle through it.</p><p> </p><p>The heat was unbearable. Kieran conceded, finally, and thumbed the first button of his collar open, hissing in some momentary form of satisfaction. He ran a hand through his hair again, rubbing his chin and feeling the slight stubble there. He felt like a mess—and he just wanted it to be over.</p><p> </p><p>Exam season was rewarding, sure. But if it was to be his decision in the end, he’d have liked nothing better than to go home, to cool sheets and the scent of honey, and be with Lauren as she settled in for the night.</p><p> </p><p>At the thought of his wife, twin emotions of regret and affection flooded like warring seas. He set his jaw thinking about that morning, of the strained disappointment and silent resignation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s my day off today,” she’d said, sitting up in bed, sheets pooling where she held them to her skin, hair draped over her shoulder in scarlet ribbons. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The morning had washed her with a glow in the sanctuary of their bedroom that rivaled dewdrops, and he looked over to see her watching him, a hand at her sternum clutching the covers, a prying, soft smile on her lips. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Could you take it, today? I’d like to spend the day with you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He had looked at her steadily, then sighed, his expression pained. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It had been difficult to watch the eager light dim in her face as he’d told her no, that he would be needed today, as he had the past other days. He sat up to face her, body curving over the dips in the bed, as he tilted his forehead in solemn acknowledgement. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry, mon cœur. I don’t know if I can.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She frowned, but otherwise said nothing. He looked at her with apprehension, opening his mouth to speak his remonstrations. But to his surprise, she’d merely smiled, though it was duller than the first, and had leaned forward, pressing her lips to his gently, deeply. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He hadn't realized how much he missed it, but as he closed his eyes, leaned in with fervor as she kissed him, he registered the ache in his bones as she cupped his jaw in a chilly palm, the way he still chased after her even as she pulled back infinitesimally. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I understand,” she said softly, her breath a phantom against his lips. It was a simple thing, and yet somehow it had left him more reluctant, feeling more like he’d been punched, drunk on the way she smiled, tilting her head back playfully. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You have your work.” She laughs, lips parting, and he wants, he wishes, to dive back in again in favor of rising from the bed, beginning to comb the messy strands of his hair back from his forehead. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll…” he looks back as he shakes out a white undershirt, pulling it over his back.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll try and see if I can come early. Make it short.” He frowns, considering. “It’s the last day, anyhow. They shouldn’t keep me too long.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He watched the sheets bunch around her shoulders as she shrugged them with languid practice, like a sleek fox, tossing her head back against the pillow. He watched the red plumage of her hair, echoed in the trails of light caressing her face, her lips, the way it fanned about in pleats and neat folds on the white pillows, like a river of crimson flowing down limestone, and he knew then that when faced with Lauren Sinclair in the morning sun, when she was both the most vulnerable and the most guarded ghost, his skills would be rendered useless to her grace, the way she moved and invaded every corner of his being.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He felt the regret sink further in his belly like stone, like bricks of lead, and when he walked over to her, took her face in apologetic hands and kissed her just as she had, deep and reverent, he could only begin to chart the moment in the day where he could pack his bags and return to the vision of firelight he had. She whined softly under him, and he wished, he wanted still. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I guess I’ll just have to find some way to keep myself busy,” she lamented, closing her eyes and letting the gentle curve of her lashes kiss her cheeks as he pulls away, her eyes not missing the way his broad hand lingered at her sternum. He shook his head ruefully, twisting a ribbon into his hair as he kicked away discarded clothing, toeing towards the door. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Have fun, darling.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh, perhaps I will.” She said petulantly, laughing. “You as well, dearest!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Have fun, she says.” He grumbled, shaking his head and leaving his fingers to rest on the doorknob. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Turning back, he shot her a quick, roving glance. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll see you later, then?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She hummed, and he watched the way her legs shifted underneath the sheets as she drew her knees up to her chest, the covers falling from her in pools of silky cream.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes. See you, subordinate,” she said, her voice syrupy and coy, and, really, he does hate her, sometimes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He snapped back when Colin slumped into the chair beside him again, holding out a rough draft of paper in clammy fingers. Kieran took it, studying the haphazard lines with less intensity than he should have been. </p><p> </p><p>“The issue isn’t—“ Colin begins, his face scrunching rather like a spaniel when faced with something perplexing—“the abstract painting itself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then?” Kieran asked, tilting his head towards his student. “This looks fine—I mean, grammatical issues, but you find those yourself, I think.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “You have too much faith in me, Professeur.” </em>Colin groaned, deadpan. Kieran let loose a hoarse chuckle, waving the paper in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Then…?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s—well—“ he hesitated, his eyes skeptical.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes?” </em>Kieran raised a brow, masking impatience.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to ask you this—but I don’t—“ he grimaced—“know what to write, here.”</p><p> </p><p>He indicated a portion of the essay that had seen many amendments, the pencil marks furious and masking lilting script.</p><p> </p><p>“You see—I have to write what my purpose was for this piece—what I wanted to convey, what meaning, you see.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran hummed, finally seeing where this was going.</p><p> </p><p>Colin rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head of sandy hair until it masked his eyes, inquisitive and reluctant as they were. </p><p> </p><p>“But when I did <em> this—“ </em> he indicated the painting—“I mean—I couldn’t say I was really <em> thinking </em>when I—“</p><p> </p><p>He looked over sheepishly at Kieran. “So you see—I don’t know what to write.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran considered him thoughtfully for a few moments, looking down at the words on the paper and furrowing his brows. Colin sat there in silence, sweat beading at his forehead, a finger stretching the collar of his uniform.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s—<em> terribly </em>stuffy in here, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran clicked his tongue. “Glad someone else noticed.”</p><p> </p><p>He was thinking, thinking of something someone had said to him long ago. It had probably been Lauren—a while back, her hair spilling over his chest, her hands on his skin, somewhere, sometime in his memory, flitting in his peripheral amongst figments of gold and yellow and the feeling of her against him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Not everything in life, I think, needs to have explicit purpose.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He could hear her voice clarion and clear as day, the sweet note of it like a flute song and ever sybillant, ever damaging, and if she could just speak more, keep talking so he could bottle up the way it made him feel and drink himself sick on it, so he could always hear it even when his eyes were closed in sleep, and he was <em> so, very tired, </em> and if she would just <em> stay with him— </em></p><p> </p><p>“Do you—<em> Professeur?” </em>Colin hedged, and Kieran hissed slightly, shaking his head to block out trails of smoke and honeycomb.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Sorry—“ </em>he sighed, looking down. “I think I have a solution, though.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin brightened, and the grey slate of his eyes shone with the hope of a schoolboy who had already accepted the fact that he was doomed. <em> “Really?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran nodded placing the essay back on top of the painting. </p><p> </p><p>“Write about how you <em> didn’t </em>have a purpose.” He said, rising to his feet and beginning to organize the papers on his desk.</p><p> </p><p>Colin sat stunned. <em> “What—?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran smiled softly at his bewildered look, lifting his bag from its place at his feet, fiddling with the straps before looking at his student, palms on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“You see—“ he paused, looking down at the corners of the painting he could still see from under the drafts—“Art is meant to be free. It’s meant to be something you do because of some innate inspiration.”</p><p> </p><p>He tapped the painting lightly, holding up a finger with a wide smile. “It can be profound, meaningful—but oftentimes, we create because of something we cannot explain—just because we feel like it.”</p><p> </p><p>He tilted his head, patting down his pockets before shrugging the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “You enjoyed this, correct? You enjoyed making it. It was—liberating.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it, choosing instead to nod reluctantly, like he was just figuring it out himself. Kieran grinned.</p><p> </p><p>“Then?” He spread his fingers. “Say that! ‘<em> I didn’t have any express purpose—I did what came to me, and that was my reason for creating.’” </em></p><p> </p><p>Colin looked up at him, gaping. He rose as well, his hands reaching for the painting with new meaning, new excitement. </p><p> </p><p>“You mean—<em> I can just say that?” </em>He asked incredulously.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran nodded, walking around him to move to the coat hanger, his fingers finding the neck of the blazer he’d worn here, considering it balefully before ultimately deciding to stuff it in his bag. It was too hot to wear—he was suffering enough as it was.</p><p> </p><p>“As long as you show passion for what you do—“ he turned, smiling. “It doesn’t have to be profound.”</p><p> </p><p>Colin looked ebullient, his cheeks flushed with pride and gratitude. “Oh, <em> Professeur—thank you, thank you!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran waved a hand. “Think nothing of it—now, if you’ll excuse me—“</p><p> </p><p>He drew out a pocket watch, alarm flooding him with how late it had gotten. Colin grimaced.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry—you’re in a bit of a hurry, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran sighed tersely, his eyes closed. “I suppose so—its late, and—“</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “I promised my wife I’d try to come home early.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” Colin nodded, apologetic. “That’s sweet!”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran laughed sardonically, gesturing with his hands as he turned to leave.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks—turn out the light on your way out, Colin!”</p><p> </p><p>“I will!” He shouted after him. “And thank you—!”</p><p> </p><p>But Kieran was already five steps ahead, his footsteps light and sharp as he exited the building, making down the pathway in the muggy night air, towards home, towards the scent of a raging forest fire and honey gold, blood red.</p><p> </p><p>It really was too hot. </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>He walks the pathway up to his home, his eyes roving over the familiar trails of flowerbeds, smelling the familiar, comforting scent of late summer blooms, of charcoal and the lingering, faint burnt umber of smoke. </p><p> </p><p>Home. <em> Home.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He sees lights still flicker from behind the arches of the window panes, and is relieved at the sight—she hasn’t gone to bed yet. He didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if he’d come so late as to have missed her, once again.</p><p> </p><p>He fumbles with the keys only briefly, finally unlocking the door and stepping inside, the cool air of his home enveloping him, eliciting a relieved sigh and a groan as he worked out the kinks in his neck, felt the frosty breeze wash over him like a salve.</p><p> </p><p>He finds himself too tired for a particularly enthusiastic “honey, I’m home—“ but he tries, nonetheless, his mouth open in partial greeting—</p><p> </p><p>His senses are immediately overwhelmed, accosted with the thick scent of spice.</p><p> </p><p>It’s everywhere, permeating like a sly chord of music, lilting, syrupy, dripping with that particular note that comes with these types of spices. It’s not particularly unwelcome, though it is out of place—and it emanates from the kitchenette, where he can hear the frantic footfalls of one on floorboards, of the metallic clinks of pots and pans, of industry and life.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses only briefly, taken aback, before making his way over the archway leading into the room, his fingers poised to tap a tune on the door, his wife’s name already bubbling affectionately to his lips.</p><p> </p><p>And then, he stops, all breath leaving his lungs.</p><p> </p><p>Now:</p><p> </p><p>Lauren Sinclair in white had always been a thing of ephemeral vision. </p><p> </p><p>He’d never get tired of the way his button downs draped over her form, the way they engulfed the delicate curves of her wrists and hips, and yet still made her look impossibly welcome, like they were made to button over her skin. He’d never get tired of her in the morning, their ivory sheets contrasting the startling hue of her hair so violently he’d feel he could never breathe again. He’d never get tired of her in white, his white.</p><p> </p><p>But Lauren Sinclair-White in <em> black </em>was something he hadn’t quite mastered yet.</p><p> </p><p>She’s in one of his rare inky black shirts, the fabric standing out against her milky white skin, like a gentle curl of newspaper, the charcoal hues pressing in angles and curves down her thin frame. She’s left the top two buttons open, and he watches as she looks frantically down at whatever she’s managed to burn on the stove in front of her, watches the way her skin shifts and collar quivers. </p><p> </p><p>Red and black mix together in his vision, like ripe berries, like the chiaroscuro of a devil’s smirk, like a stark realization he can’t bring himself to stop staring at.</p><p> </p><p>And she’s stolen one of his belts, too.</p><p> </p><p>It cuts her shirt at the dips of her waist, creating a silhouette of angles and soft swells and fabric folds that makes him yearn to curve his palm against her hip, slant his fingers against bone.</p><p> </p><p>She’s in his shirt, in his belt, in their home, and damn her, damn Lauren Sinclair, really.</p><p> </p><p>When she finally registers his presence she starts, her eyes darting from the pan on the stove to his own in bashful and sheepish greeting. The apples of her cheeks, the tip of her nose and the rose of her lips, they are pink with surprise and lingering frustration.</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran!” Her voice is breathless, her lips part, and damn her, really, damn her for looking like <em> that. </em></p><p> </p><p>He can’t find words so easily; he merely tilts his head in a pathetic form of acknowledgement.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—“ she looks down at the mess she’s made, the one he hadn’t quite registered in favor of memorizing the artful way her hair is mussed, the way the soft pearl studs in her ears glint under the kitchen light, the way her legs move and tease the hem of his shirt ever upward.</p><p> </p><p>The stovetop gurgles a little, and she throws it a baleful glare before returning to her guilty visage. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry—“ she grimaces, fumbling with the cast iron pan. “I tried—I wanted to surprise you—“</p><p> </p><p>She looks up sheepishly. “But you know me—I’m no cook—I have <em> no </em>idea what I’m doing—“</p><p> </p><p>It’s true, she’s not a cook; she’s never had to cook, and he does know that. But as he carefully sets his bag down on a stool beside him, thumbs the collar still oppressively hugging his throat and begins to move towards her with deceptive lethargy, he finds to his embarrassment that he’s not really listening to what she’s saying.</p><p> </p><p>She brushes golden dust off of her sleeves, her shoulders, and takes his silence to mean that she should continue with her ramblings.</p><p> </p><p>She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her hands wild with sheepish remonstrance.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—gosh, I don’t even know what happened.” She says, groaning as she inhales the still cloying scent of spice, of the lilting honey notes of her mishap.</p><p> </p><p>“That blasted spice container—the recipe called for coriander and I just—I put <em> way </em>too much in—“</p><p> </p><p>He still says nothing, merely pushing off his stationary position by the wall to begin to move closer, his footsteps silent, unheard, hushed.</p><p> </p><p>It startles even him; when did he become that predator, again? That silent panther, that prowler, that end? When did he fall back into that role?</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it never really left him.</p><p> </p><p>Or perhaps it awoke again at the sight of black on white, of something that is his on the neck of someone he wants.</p><p> </p><p>She’s still continuing, her deft fingers flicking dust off her, off the countertop.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s gotten everywhere now, dammit—why on earth do people do this? For fun—?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s directly in front of her now, hands buried in his pockets, lest they betray him. The scent of coriander grain spreads ever-closer, ever farther.</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him finally, and he towers over her with his imposing height, with her sans her heels and defiant arrogance.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head in a personification of pure apology. “I’m so sorry--I’ll clean this up, don’t worry about it.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks down at his wife. Cocks his head languidly. </p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him from under her lashes, and damn her, damn her. Does the vixen <em> know, </em>does she know what she does to the pather? </p><p> </p><p>She must know--Lauren Sinclair-White knows many, many things, after all.</p><p> </p><p>She must know, must see his fraying composure, the way he holds himself in restraint. Kieran White is practiced in restraint--that is what he tells himself, so he may believe it himself, so she does not have to name it a lie for him.</p><p> </p><p>But she still doesn’t seem to notice, bringing her hands up to wave at her sternum, hesitating under the weight of his roving gaze.</p><p> </p><p>He still says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re--you must be really tired, yes?” She asks gently. “You’re--not upset, about this?”</p><p> </p><p>That snaps him out of it, a little bit. He shakes his head vaguely.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, surely, he steps closer.</p><p> </p><p>She instinctively moves backwards a step to accommodate him, but as he only presses closer, and closer, she seems to get some of the hint, the perfect arch of her back now flush with the rim of the marble countertop. </p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him challengingly, as he finally begins to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not upset.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice is so, impeccably quiet, that he almost relishes in the quality of the baritone. It’s like cello notes, molasses folding over a rasp that he supposes is produced by the haze raging in his lungs.</p><p> </p><p>She’s stolen his breath, stolen many other things he doesn’t want to name, and she’s in his black shirt, his belt laying claim to her waist, and damn her, damn Lauren Sinclair-White.</p><p> </p><p>“What would I have to be upset about--hm--?”</p><p> </p><p>And slowly, slowly, he reaches up a hand, an arm, around her--his body still does not touch hers, a hair’s breadth still separating them tortuously. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren furrows her brows, looking up into his eyes as he stretches around her, effectively caging her against the marble.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean--” she hedges--”surely you don’t want to deal with my cooking skills--not tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>He stops in his trajectory for only a moment, considering.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he clicks the stove off. Returns to her, focusing on the way her lips part in perfect furls, like petals blooming.</p><p> </p><p>She cocks her head as he leans closer, his eyes still not on hers, but on her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm. I don’t really--you’re correct.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice is a hushed whisper against her skin as he moves ever closer, as close as he can be, and their bodies are just shy of flush against each other.</p><p> </p><p>A lithe hand instinctively draws up to brace herself against his chest, and she can feel the wild race of his heart under the pads of her fingers, can feel the hitched breath even as she hears it.</p><p> </p><p>And she gets it, then.</p><p> </p><p>She knows her husband too well. </p><p> </p><p>She knows what he wants, knows that when he wants something, he takes it.</p><p> </p><p>Her mind clears of its previous doubt, and with a dawning smile of understanding, she plays his game.</p><p> </p><p>She tilts her head invitingly, dumming her fingers at the juncture of his collar, trailing them lightly until they thumb and tease at the offending buttons hiding his skin from her touch.</p><p> </p><p>Smiles like the devil.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps she does deserve his damnations.</p><p> </p><p>“What <em> would </em>you like to deal with, then, subordinate?”</p><p> </p><p>He looks at her, still nothing forming on his perfect lips.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes, those piercing, hopelessly beautiful things, they land on hers only briefly, sending shivers up her spine before leaving her wanting, trailing down to the way her neck quivers, the way her chest rises and falls with her breaths, and finally, the way her lips press together in anticipation. </p><p> </p><p>He looks at her like she is the only thing in the world worth looking at, like she is the one thing bracing him from falling into the ocean that is his want, his desire, and she knows her husband, knows what he wants.</p><p> </p><p>She knows what he wants--</p><p> </p><p>He wants to curl his hands, still resting on the countertop on either side of her, on her waist, where his belt is, and pull.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to cup her jaw in those same hands, greedy as they are, tilt her delicate chin until they are face to face, and watch as she swallows with her own want.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to press himself to her until they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, he wants to feel her lips on his like a starved man wants even the simplest of meals.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to own her and have her and kiss her so damn deeply she won’t be able to remember anything but his name.</p><p> </p><p>She smiles.</p><p> </p><p>He matches her, his face bright with vigor. He dips lower, his lips ghosting over her jaw, teasingly.</p><p> </p><p>“I think you know the answer--<em> mon cœur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>She arches her neck as he makes his way up, the final kiss at the very corner of her lips, not quite where she wants him, sending her over the precipice of impatience.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls back to regard him in full, and before he has the time to look disappointed she has grabbed him by the hem of his collar, pulling him towards her harshly and placing him exactly where she wants him to be.</p><p> </p><p>His lips are finally, finally on hers, and then he is everywhere and nowhere at once, his hands pressing at the small of her back, pushing her up against the countertop.</p><p> </p><p>She hums in satisfaction against his mouth, her head dipping to chase him as he pulls away only briefly, coming back to her with a fire, a vengeance, like he cannot stand to be apart from her touch for a second.</p><p> </p><p>Her hands trail up his biceps, curving around taut muscle as she scrabbles for purchase against his shoulder blades, and his hands press ever closer, searing warmth into her skin and making her wish he’d go further.</p><p> </p><p>She pants against his skin, and he growls in delight as she hooks a bare leg around his clothed one, the feeling of fabric scraping bare skin making her hiss as she pulls him to her, and her back arches to bring her closer, closer, not close enough, never close enough.</p><p> </p><p>Her hands trail up to his chest, teasing at his collarbone, then climbing to his hair, carding through the loose strands with fervor as he plants kisses at her sternum, traveling lower, lower.</p><p> </p><p>She arches her neck and twists back with an amused giggle, and thats when he stops, pulling back and looking her in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>He’s artfully dishevelied, the poised man broken so, and she pouts with the lack of his skin on hers nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head, voice breathless, gasping out words through the ringing in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>In answer she looks down at his jaw, smoothing hands down the sharp angled of it before bringing her fingernails to scratch at his chin.</p><p> </p><p>The faint stubble brushes the pads of her fingertips, and she looks up at him with coy amusement in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“When did you last shave, dearest?”</p><p> </p><p>The question takes a while to register, but when it does he leans back in reluctant consideration, drawing a hand up to stroke his own chin.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm--I--don’t know, really.” He says, still taken aback at the abrupt pause. “Perhaps--it’s been days now--Tuesday.”</p><p> </p><p>She hums, tilting her head significantly and eyeing him keenly. He flushes in embarrassment, fingers brushing his chin self-consciously.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it--does it look bad?” He asks earnestly. She laughs, shaking her head and kicking him lightly with a teasing foot.</p><p> </p><p>“No--you could never look <em> bad, </em>subordinate.” She spreads her fingers, her laughter still ringing through the kitchenette.</p><p> </p><p>“But you do think it unsightly.” He replies, smirking, the hand on her waist loosening slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm--” she rubs her thumbs on his cheeks, tilting her head in consideration. “--it would look better, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs. “Right.”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses for a few moments, then, hesitatingly, she inquires up at him, her eyes wide.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you--want me to do it for you?”</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if he could be any more taken aback. He opens his mouth, but she’s already ahead of him.</p><p> </p><p>“If--I did it now, you wouldn’t need to do it in the morning.” She smiles. “Besides--you’ve just got here--the night is still young.”</p><p> </p><p>He stares, and then throws his head back, his laughter booming from his chest. He kisses her, and even though it was meant to be brief, the way he holds her is still laced with draining hunger.</p><p> </p><p>“That it is, officer,” he rasps against her lips, and she shivers. </p><p> </p><p>“So--?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, pulling back and setting himself right again. “I’ll humor you.”</p><p> </p><p>She cocks her hip, clicking her tongue at him. “I’ll charge a small fee for my services, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” He pauses in his movement towards the door, throwing a playful glance over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“My--I don’t know if I can afford it, then,” he sighs in a mockery of pity, shaking his head ruefully. “Name your price, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Once again he is caught unawares when, with the sleek movements of a lynx, she slides up to him, fingers twining at the fabric of his collar, still deliciously loose. She lowers her voice, and he smells coriander amongst the honey.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll decide later, I think.” she says, her breath a waif against his skin. Then, drawing back, she winks, her fingers trailing on his stomach as she darts away.</p><p> </p><p>“Go to the bathroom--I’ll meet you there!” She throws over her shoulder, as she sets the pans right before moving behind the far door.</p><p> </p><p>He stands, feeling punch-drunk and filled with longing, and shakes his head in incredulity.</p><p> </p><p>Damn his wife, damn her, truly. </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>He sets about making himself casual, moving to their shared bathroom and turning on the light. It flickers and illuminates the room brightly, highlighting cool marble flooring and a long sink, washes of blue and cream soothing his senses and making him feel at home, in a space he could call his. He can still smell the coriander from below.</p><p> </p><p>He scrutinizes himself in the mirror, noting that yet, what little beard he’s managed to amass had grown alarmingly, and he grimaced at the thought of walking about looking so unkempt. Shaking his head to clear it, he begins, shuffling paraphernalia and clearing the countertop before taking care of his own appearance, unbuttoning his shirt until it hung open around his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>He groaned as he rubbed the back of his neck, massaging out the ache in the muscle as he threaded hands through his hair, untying the ribbon holding it back and letting it fall loose around his shoulders. Then, stepping out, he dragged a simple wooden chair from the hall outside, placing it in front of the counter before falling back into it with a resigned sigh.</p><p> </p><p>He heard light footsteps from behind his closed eyelids, and when he opened them Lauren was there, a small tin of shaving cream in her hands and a plain look on her face. She was still in his shirt.</p><p> </p><p>She tilted her head in acknowledgement before kneeling to rummage through the cabinets below the bathroom counter, frowning when her searches appeared fruitless.</p><p> </p><p>"Where the <em>hell </em>did you keep your straight razor?" She asked, rising to search the top of the counter.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran hummed, thinking. "Try the downstairs bathroom?"</p><p> </p><p>She clicked her tongue, her brows furrowed. "I did…no cigar." </p><p> </p><p>Kieran laughed, tilting his head back. "You could always use one of the knives in the basement."</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him in acute exasperation, her face blank.</p><p> </p><p>"Just don't cut me and we should be fine, officer." He said, his eyes twinkling.</p><p> </p><p>She picked up the jar of shaving cream and lobbed it at him, turning swiftly on her heel as he caught it swiftly.</p><p> </p><p>"Put that on--I'll check downstairs again."</p><p> </p><p>"Affirmative, Chief Sinclair." He threw back, a mock salute at his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>He dipped his hands in white foam, rubbing it briefly in his fingertips before swiping it against his skin, feeling the cool material wash over like a fresh wave. He washed his hands once he was finished, glancing up in the mirror, looking at his twin self and smiling in amusement.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren came back in, waving a small razor in her fingers triumphantly, her face chagrined amongst the flush.</p><p> </p><p>"You were right--"</p><p> </p><p>"Hah!"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't--" she pointed the flat of the blade at him, her fingers steady and practiced in her threats, even after years. </p><p> </p><p>"--don't say a word, Kieran."</p><p> </p><p>He held up his hands in surrender. "I won't, <em> mon amour." </em></p><p> </p><p>Then, as she prepared her materials, washing the razor in careful fingers and twisting it until the blade sung in the air, he regarded himself in the mirror with a pang of amusement, lifting a strand of hair from his shoulder lightly.</p><p> </p><p>"Think I should cut this off, too?" He turned, inquiring. "Just to complete the look."</p><p> </p><p>She turned to him, her eyes considering him. Then, her face scrunched up in what was probably unconscious disgust, her nose wrinkling with distaste.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Is the idea that offensive?!"</p><p> </p><p>She snapped out of it, moving closer and standing directly in front of him. In his sitting position he came up to her chest, still, and she looked down at him with a soft smile, her fingers threading through his hair and causing him to shiver lightly with the way her fingernails massaged his scalp.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not particularly <em> offensive…" </em>she drawled thoughtfully. </p><p> </p><p>"But it wouldn't feel like you, anymore." </p><p> </p><p>He looked up at this, his eyes adoring, pitched with affection. She smiled at him before leaning down, the razor in her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>"So, subordinate?" She asked, her voice thick and lilting, sugary and slow like maple syrup. He felt all the air leave him, again, and he was sure that she really would kill him, one day.</p><p> </p><p>"Shall I begin?" </p><p> </p><p>He nodded, and that was that, and the blade kissed his skin.</p><p> </p><p>She worked with patience, eloquence, like an artist with only the deepest respect for her work. She started at the juncture of his ear, dragging the silver downward and scraping white off of honey tinted skin, revealing smooth, clean planes to her touch. One she had reached the apex, tapping the tip against his chin, she drew back, an electric note of coriander still spinning in the air, and dipped the razor in water, returning to him duly and starting up again.</p><p> </p><p>He resisted the urge to speak while she did this, understanding that she wouldn't hesitate to cut him if he tried anything. Once, he ventured to move his lips, attempting to tease her about her intense scrutiny and concentration, but instantly felt the skin on his cheek press, the silver sting deepening dangerously.</p><p> </p><p>He clicked his tongue and she drew back, and he could see fire dancing in molten honey eyes, the cat-like pleasure in them sparking in mischief. </p><p> </p><p>"Well?"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't spill my blood, officer." He said teasingly, his eyes matching hers in intensity.</p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, she leaned forward to kiss his nose lightly, drawing back before looking him dead in the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Never," she promised. He smiled lightly, knowing it was more than the utmost truth.</p><p> </p><p>"Although perhaps if you annoy me too much--" she started, her voice teasing. He hummed in mock affront, his brows raising.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh--you want me to <em> annoy </em>you."</p><p> </p><p>He could see the way she stopped at the new husk to his voice, the way he sounded in coy challenge. It was only a brief moment of hesitation, but it read like a gunshot in his mind, told him all he needed to know.</p><p> </p><p>He watched the way her skin shifted underneath the black fabric as she trailed the razor down his jaw, the way her legs shifted under the hem as she adjusted herself, the way her hair fell in curtains and scarlet rivulets, curling around her shoulders in a masterpiece of crimson yarn. He watched her, waiting and waiting, like the predator he always was, like the panther shrouded in the dregs of a night not forgiving.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he takes his chance as she leans to pay attention to the slope of his jaw, and he surged forward, nipping her shoulder with his teeth playfully.</p><p> </p><p>He barely dodged the sharp jerk of the bone, the look she shot him, and he took that opportunity again, when her guard was off, to reach up a belligerent hand to grasp at her hip, trailing it down until it brushed the back of her thigh. She gasped, shifting closer and huffing in exasperation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Really--" </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "This--" </em>he murmured, drumming his fingers against her skin--"is me annoying you."</p><p> </p><p>He didn't miss the way she worried her lip between her teeth, how she unconsciously moved closer. He could feel the twist of the blade thrill against his bones, her wrecked voice as she challenged him.</p><p> </p><p>“You should really stop if you don’t want me to cut you.” She said, though her voice warbled slightly. He grinned, his teeth wolfish against the dull sensation of fabric.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me--tell me to stop, then.” </p><p> </p><p>She stopped, the protests caught on her lips as he trailed his hand up again, his fingers finding the hem of his shirt, then the loops of his belt, pulling teasingly, tauntingly, promisingly. Her skin flushed pink, her voice dropped low.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Tell me to stop.” </em>He murmured again, finding no refusal. Instead he heard a sharp exhale, and the last of the foam wiped itself from his face.</p><p> </p><p>“There,” she pronounced unevenly, dropping the razor in water for one final time. “Finished.”</p><p> </p><p>She leaned against the countertop, jutting her hip and regarding him like a critic, the trails of her gaze on his branding on his skin like brimstone. </p><p> </p><p>He retracted his hand with a coy smirk, turning to look at himself in the mirror. He regarded their twin forms, the both of them reflected together in the frosty glass. He stroked fingers across his chin, feeling the smooth skin with satisfaction. </p><p> </p><p>But his eyes, they would always seek out hers. He looked up to see her in the mirror, noting how she watched him. Her hip was cocked, a hand resting on it as she tilted her head, her eyes never leaving his. She watched the way he moved, the way his presence filled the room with an air of completion, of home, of solace. Still, she looked at him in the mirror, her lip curved in a slight, endearing pout. </p><p> </p><p>When he turned to her, she did too. They stared at each other, their gazes unreadable.</p><p> </p><p>“So--?” he ventured, his voice sly, lilting, deep. “How is it, officer?”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t answer for a few moments, her eyes still on his, intense, bold, brash. He watched her bite her lip again, the flushed pink of it inviting, drawing him in like a moth to a burning, bright flame.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, she is upon him, her lips on his and hands in his hair, and he groans in surprise as she moves to straddle his hips, legs on his waist as she settles on the chair with him. He instinctively holds her to him, her weight a stark comfort on top of him, and as her hair falls about them in a curtain, hiding them from the rest of the world, she kisses him ever deeper, ever desperately. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll--” he pants between her minstrations--”take that as a good sign?”</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, pressing closer, and he hissed with satisfaction. </p><p> </p><p>“Good as ever, subordinate.” She lobbied, her voice thick with want. He drew her to him, hands on her jaw as he finally, finally chased her, and she reciprocated, as she always would; they are equals, they are each their own no matter how tightly they are twined together.</p><p> </p><p><em> “I missed you, mon bonheur,” </em>she whispers into the groove of his neck, her voice wistful and reverent. He trails his fingers down the dips of her ribs and waist, settling on her hips to bring her closer to him, as he nods his head.</p><p> </p><p>“I missed you too, <em> mon coeur. </em>I’m sorry for being--”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” She cut him off, her lips desperate against his. “Don’t. Just--”</p><p> </p><p>And he did, kisses becoming desperate, heavy, wanting. She shifted against him, and he broke away finally, gasping a question against her milky white skin, wanting, wanting so ferociously. </p><p> </p><p>“Shall we go to bed?” He asks, his eyes clouded.</p><p> </p><p>She draws back and he nearly growls in disappointment, though her fingers find his easily, like they are puzzle pieces meant to be together. They twine together as she leans forward, chest to chest and heart to heart. Her voice drops to a luscious whisper, right by his ear.</p><p> </p><p><em> “No.” </em>she says, and his heart could really stop, he would really die here, happy, loved.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re going to stay--” and she shifts closer, the devil, the devil, and damn her, <em> damn </em>his wife.</p><p> </p><p>“--right where we are.” </p><p> </p><p>And her coy smile, the sound of her voice and scent of coriander, are the last things he ever wants to remember. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This,,,, I uhh.</p><p>This is pure, self indulgent spice, and am I ashamed of myself? Absolutely not 😳</p><p>A VERY big thank you to my darling Ex_Nihilo for not only generating this idea with me after me prodding her about Assassin Lauren shaving OKW’s beard off in chapter 11/12, but also for allowing me to thirst about this chapter for a solid month. Ilysm I think you know ❤️</p><p>This is practice for spicy content which I might have coming your way sometime in the future 👀be warned. NEVER ANYTHING EXPLICIT, but,,,, sensual, let’s say. Have fun</p><p>Comments/kudos are coriander sprigs &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Pink Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pink Roses: passion, youth, joy of life</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lauren was startled to find that she didn’t necessarily feel out of place, staring up at the imposing building of Darnley Enterprises, embroidered with enough ostentatious engravings to rival perhaps even the royal palace.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She reasoned it was because she’d grown up with grandeur, had somehow managed to get used to the jagged edges and cloying scents that came with the upper echelons and their supposed ‘little indulgences’ that could only be classified, truly, as enormous ones. She reasoned it was because she was a seasoned warrior to the effects of dress fitting, had been through the rituals and rites enough times over her years of living to know the subtleties that came with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Kym evidently wasn’t so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why does it have to be so damn—</span>
  <em>
    <span>sprawling?!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She ejaculated, gesturing to the way the building unfurled in elegant panels of creamy marble, the walls engraved with little roses and bay leaves, the way ivy climbed and hugged the structure like a bosom lover. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because people like it that way--have you seen the buildings in the first?” Lauren laughed, throwing a glance back at her friend as she began to make her way up the steps. Her heels sounded a steady thump on the polished granite, and as Kym began to trail up behind her she could hear a mirror of noise from below.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well yes, of course--but I’m asking why it’s necessary.” Kym waved a hand. “You could just as easily take up in some nice shack--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“True, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but if we’re going by </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>logic then why bother taking up in the second precinct at all?” Lauren frowned. “You and I have been in this area before, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>how people like it here--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>old nobility, I understand.” Kym smiled ruefully, racing up the last few steps that separated them to twine her arm through Lauren’s elbow affectionately. The navy waves of her hair was slicked back in a tiny ponytail settling at the nape of her neck; she’d been growing it out slightly, and stray strands escaped the ribbon and brushed at her collarbones delicately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t mean I have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>approve--</span>
  </em>
  <span>but it is easy on the eyes, I’ll give them that.” She looked up once again at the building decked in roses, then fished in the pocket of her dress for the little card they’d been given the week prior.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mademoiselle Rosa Darnley. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Are we in the right spot?” Kym’s brows furrowed, scrutinizing the blush pink cardstock, bordered in roses of a similar color.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren stole a glance at the brass plate adjacent to the doorframe, noting that the names did, indeed, match. She nodded reluctantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It would seem so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then?” Kym tugged on her arm, leading the way into the building, pushing open the large chestnut doors with surprising force. Lauren followed on her heels, stepping into the large building with near reluctance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan, among cohorts of other individuals, had insisted that she get herself a suitable gown for her inauguration as Chief of Police, despite her constant protests and exasperated gestures to a closet overflowing with enough tulle and silk to drown the entire Royal Family. But the desire to please her uncle and, she supposed, the entire party of people at the event, won out tentatively over her wish to remain in anonymity, to simply take her vows and sit with Kieran for the night, in their own little bubble, unassuming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, she supposed, a Chief of Police couldn’t really be unassuming and unheard, left in the shadows. Not anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re going to be in the front of it,” Kieran had said to her. She’d nodded solemnly, looked down at her fingertips, where she suspected she could still see tremors, hints of pink where she’d dug them into her palms.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He took her hands in his, looked at her steadily.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Is this what you want, Lauren?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She considered it. His eyes were open, honest, and she felt she could be, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t know.” She said finally, frankly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But--” she looked up, resolute, fire in her eyes. “If I can help rebuild Ardhalis--any way my position can afford--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that had been it, in the soft planes of light that shrouded her like velvet, and she could feel the lead weight of the badge on her shoulder, even then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“--then I will take up that chance.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kieran had smiled winningly, squeezed her fingers once, then started up with a mock salute.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then that’s settled Chief Sinclair,” he’d said, joy and light and life, and all was right, all was cemented, etched like roses.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snapped back as she walked into the building, the soft, unhurried scent of fresh flowers and apple orchards breezing about the room in tendrils, the ambience plush and professional. The inside was calm, cool, collected, so unlike the exterior in every way that Lauren almost had to turn around to ensure she’d entered the right building.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I take everything I said back.” Kym said, hushed, as if she’d shatter the tiny clay vases filled with pink roses if she spoke over a whisper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is alright,” she conceded, hands on her hips and surveying the room with a kind of begrudging satisfaction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They could hear soft sounds of industry drifting in from one of the adjoining rooms, the only noise in the otherwise placidly silent office. The rustling of fabric and the smooth lilt of a youthful voice caught in the middle of enthusiasm and mellow tones shot through the air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Remember, if the hem is too long I can always take it up--but I can’t let down a hem that’s been made too short just as easily.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Right, right.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Another woman’s voice answered, slightly older, slightly tighter. Kym and Lauren stood in the threshold of the doorway as a woman in a wave of sea green silk came bustling out of the room, holding a purse tight and muttering to herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another woman followed not soon after, a pencil tucked behind a delicate ear adorned with a sparkling pearl, a smile like a cat that had gotten its cream on her pleasant face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was young, spritely, and her intelligent grey eyes were duly revealed by the gentle part of her strawberry blonde waves, the curtains of it tied back with a scarlet headband. She wore a dress of a matching color, sweeping down to her knees in gentle slopes. Lauren was struck immediately by the acute sense that she was wholly comfortable in the environment she was in, that amongst the copious planters of pink roses and yards of fabric still trailing behind her in spools of gauzy tissue, she was more home than she would ever be anywhere else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And when you’re done with mumbling, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you can come pick up that corset you ordered last week,” She said, dipping behind the counter and steepling her fingers, polite and professional. When her eyes drifted to the two newcomers standing hesitantly by the door, she smiled winningly, a perfect curve of inviting lips, and held up a pleading finger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Un minute, s'il vous plait.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She mouthed, and Lauren shook her head, waving a hand in dismissal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mademoiselle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that I’m willing to pay--” the other woman started, her brows furrowed and lips creased into a thin line.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame </span>
  </em>
  <span>D’Argent, I can assure you that everything has been calculated thoroughly--</span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the expense.” She replied, still patient but with a hint of irritation seeping in. She tapped the paper in front of her with a perfectly varnished finger, and crossed her arms behind the counter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The aforementioned Mrs. D’Argent looked like she was about to protest further, but something in the younger woman’s eyes made her stop cold. Lauren could appreciate it--it was stone, unyielding and yet professional all the same. Even Kym noticed it--Lauren could see her nodding slightly in approval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes--don’t let her walk all over you--!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kym!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lauren kicked her lightly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop--!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman handed over a bag of pence coins, hiking up her skirts and making for the door, shooting Kym a nasty glance as she exited, the large mahogany creaking shut with fanfare, pitching the room in silence again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman finished writing something in a quick, scrawling hand, then set down the pen with a clatter and bounded over to them eagerly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry about that--hope you weren’t waiting too long!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym smiled at the woman’s enthusiasm and energy, waving a hand in dismissal. “No, we’d just arrived. No worries!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiled. Then, upon closer inspection of Lauren, she gasped, holding up a hand to her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Pardon me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I don’t think I’m mistaken on this--!” She pointed to Lauren. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You </span>
  </em>
  <span>must be our future Chief!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She searched in her mind, then perked up when she found the name on her tongue. “Lauren Sinclair!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren laughed in sheepish acknowledgement, threading a hand through her hair self-consciously. “I suppose you’re correct.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You figured it out because of her eyes, didn’t you?” Kym prodded, her eyes mischievous. Lauren resisted the urge to kick her again. The woman laughed heartily, her hands dusting off the sleeves of her dress, making herself presentable instead of flushed with the lingering pangs of intense and passionate work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> rumored to be quite pensive, if that is what you mean.” She winked. Lauren clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and the woman retreated a bit in her enthusiasm, her face a school of politeness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can probably guess--but I’m Rosa Darnley.” She held out a delicate hand, which Lauren took gingerly. They were thin to the bone, and nicked with needle marks and calluses from a sewing machine, but something in it was firm with conviction, and Lauren knew then that she’d like this woman, she’d like Rosa Darnley. It was a fact, true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You came here to get a dress for your ceremony, yes?” She asked, her head tilted. Kym nodded vigorously, thrusting Lauren forward by the elbow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to be difficult!” Kym pouted. “Doesn’t want anything of the sort--but we’re all forcing her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I see!” Rosa smiled warmly, shooting Kym a conspiratorial nod. Leaning in, she whispered to her, voice smooth and quiet, gentle like rose petals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll see if I can get into her.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She winked. Kym smiled effusively. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hear that, Lauren? She promised she’d break you open!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren sighed, her eyes closed. “I just--don’t think it needs to be as flashy as people want it to be--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nonsense, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Madame--!” Rosa began, turning on a swift heel and gesturing for them to follow her. She continued to speak as she walked, leading them to the room she’d just come from and motioning for Lauren to step onto the large platform in the center. Fabric lay about the place in an organized cyclone of pastel and cream, and stacks of pins littered the corners of the room, set in place amongst engraved pots of pink roses, petals dripping with fresh dew, like they’d been picked straight off their stems that morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--You’re to take one of the highest positions in the country--only after the King, of course.” Rosa set about clearing the desk on the side, settling down with a brush of her skirts. Kym took up a seat closer to the door, fiddling curiously with a little model of a white gown on the side of the bench she’d ensconced herself on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It only makes sense that people would want to see you in something lovely. Besides!” She turned to Lauren, pencil poised. “Look at you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren cocked her head, hands on her hips. “Me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym scoffed. “Come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laur--you know what she’s talking about!” She gestured to her indignantly. Lauren flushed slightly as Rosa began to laugh, her giggles like a wind chime in a delicate summer breeze. It was a nice laugh; not too jarring or tinny, just the right amount of smooth, like fairy silk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes! I think you shouldn’t deny it--I won’t have to do much work to make you look much better.” She smiled ruefully, a little half-crescent curve of her lips, and Lauren blushed, an apple flush rising to her cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop, you two--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will not!” Kym said, haughty. Rosa turned to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right! Don’t stop complimenting her until she gets it through her head, that’s my motto.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m starting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, Ms. Darnley!” Kym smiled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well if you’re starting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>me--call me by my first name, then.” Rosa said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, tossing the waves of her hair over a tiny shoulder before pressing back to the issue at hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, Chief Sinclair?” She quirked her brows, perfectly done and the essence of quizzical inquiry. “What were you looking for, exactly? Anything specific?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Lauren hummed, looking down at the points of her heels. Then, back up, a new decision in her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something I can...live in, please?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa stared, then began to laugh again, pencil caught between loose fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it such an odd request?” Lauren asked, mildly affronted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa wiped tears from her eyes, shaking her head ruefully. “More so than you’d think!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tilted her head, beginning to scribble absently in her notepad. “You’d be surprised with how many people come in here and ask me to cut off their circulation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym snorted, holding up a hand to her lips to stifle an unbecoming guffaw. Rosa minded her appreciatively.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But--I understand. ‘Something you can live in,’ then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren nodded. “Something that--</span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t cut off my circulation--</span>
  </em>
  <span>and something I might be able to run in, if need be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Rosa smiled. ‘Planning to do some running?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shrugged her shoulders languidly. “You never know, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym frowned. “We’d have the whole APD there--I don’t think you’d need to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh--I think the Chief's being pragmatic.” Rosa admitted, her eyes alight with soft respect. “You never know!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean--” She waved a hand. “On the 17th I was here, in my studio, and I had to run right in the dress I’d been designing for my birthday once the fires started. Camellias everywhere! My--I upset the place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes twinkled, though. “But it was good for running! The slit I cut in it helped, immensely.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ah.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lauren paled a little. “I’m--sorry, that’s--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Rosa merely waved it off, her face brighter than a star, her cheeks flecked with dancing sparks. “Think nothing of it! It wasn’t too bad--I thought I looked pretty nice, running in a dress, flowers trailing behind me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sighed ruefully, looking almost wistful. “Must have made for a real picture--wished someone would have photographed it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she was perceptive, somewhat, and noticed that the two women in her company had gone silent at the mention of that day, the day that was supposed to be joyous, celebrated. Quickly, she waved her hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So! That doesn’t give me much else to work with--did you have something else you could suggest?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shook her head, shrugging. “I’ll leave it up to you--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You--know these things better than I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm!” She rose, her crimson skirt swaying, and her thumb on her lip, her hand on her hip, rendered her the perfect critic, an artist with the intense scrutiny of a master. She cocked her head, her eyes trailing from Lauren’s auburn hair to the nape of her ankles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Gold </span>
  </em>
  <span>would look fine on you, I think. It would bring out your eyes and hair. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>go splendidly with the decoration of the Aevasther Palace itself!” She snapped her fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s something to consider?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lauren muttered under her breath, throwing a glance at Kym, who shrugged. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean--remember when Lila told me she used to coordinate her shirts to the lighting in the office?” Kym ruminated. Lauren sighed, shaking her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose--</span>
  <em>
    <span>but it worked for her--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright!” Rosa appeared from behind the curtain she’d dipped behind, toting in her arms a large mass of golden tulle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She held it up to the light, and Lauren hummed in begrudging appreciation. It was a stark thing, and yet somehow managed to carry an air of subtlety. High necked and regal, it seemed to flare out at the waist, allowing for leg movement and enough room for her to breathe amiably. Golden pearls seeped up the edges like set gemstones, causing the fabric to glow in the soft daylight streaming through the large, open window panes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh! That’s beautiful--Lauren?” Kym looked up at her eagerly. Lauren nodded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I had this made for some time, once I heard I was going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>designer--I thought you might like what it offered--but I can always alter it to your choosing.” Rosa stated plainly, walking towards her and beginning to unzip the back. She looked over at Kym, who nodded her approval before Lauren began to slip out of her own dress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa’s hands were gentle, folding the fabric over her shoulders with the utmost care, although Lauren suspected that care was more for the intricacy of the dress and her innate reverence for her creation. And it was a thing to be revered; the fabric spread in fans of feathers and left her feeling comforted underneath the layers, but ephemeral, like she was floating on clouds of gossamer and spider’s web weaving. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To your liking, so far, Chief Sinclair?” Rosa inquired, her lips curving. Lauren stole a glance at her from her position, arms held up so Rosa could twine the sleeves around her wrists, retreating backwards slightly to let her button up the collar herself. Lauren rolled her neck, testing it out. She found it decidedly comfortable, and said as thus.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa beamed. She had a nice smile--it was joyous, full of youth and with a palpable love for what she did. Lauren couldn’t help but match the smile--it was wide and infectious, and left her feeling a new appreciation for the dress she wore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps she was excited to wear it, now, even a little bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like it!” Lauren said, honestly, frankly. She brushed her fingers over the silky fabric, feeling the small embellishments catch on her palms, feeling the smooth way the fabric hugged her. Rosa nodded slightly, then took up her wrist again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to hem these--you’re practically drowning in it--” She held up the sleeve to her face, gently pressing the fabric at the bone of her wrist until she pinned it to a spot she wanted. Lauren held up her arms to assist her. And as she did so she felt Rosa's deft fingers and keen eyes single out the one new thing adorning her ring finger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I see I might have to take something</span>
  <em>
    <span> else </span>
  </em>
  <span>into consideration," she began slyly, looking up at Lauren keenly from underneath long blonde lashes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How to knock the </span>
  <em>
    <span>husband </span>
  </em>
  <span>off his feet!" She said triumphantly, holding up the wrist that held the little gold band set with studs on it like a trophy. Lauren flushed, and Kym hooted with laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're married, Chief Sinclair!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren laughed sheepishly, color like roses blooming in her cheeks. "I am."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nobody told me </span>
  <em>
    <span>that! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Funny, that the rumors of the nature of your eyes precede your nuptials!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Newly </span>
  </em>
  <span>married, Rosa, that's the thing!" Kym interjected. Rosa gasped in awe, looking at Lauren with new appreciation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Congratulations, Madame!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>She said, gushing. "The man is </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>lucky, I'm sure!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"He is, I'd expect." </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kym muttered, and Lauren shot her a look. She waved a hand, her lips curved downward slightly. Rosa failed to notice this, instead choosing to take up the attack, both on the sleeves of the dress and on the subject of Chief Sinclair's mysterious husband. Her eyes sparkled with something rather familiar to Lauren: the thrill of new information.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>he, this most fortunate?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ah--I don't think you'd know of him by name." Lauren began sheepishly. Rose frowned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Should </span>
  </em>
  <span>I--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shook her head. "No. He's not...let's say '</span>
  <em>
    <span>nationally prominent,' </span>
  </em>
  <span>like I am."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Nice choice of words, Laur." </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kym muttered, and Lauren </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>wish she could shut her up, sometimes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well, that's fortunate, anyhow!" Rosa countered. "After all, you wouldn't want to be public, would you. Isn't it such a hassle?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"True enough, I suppose."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was silence for a few moments, in which Lauren contemplated, a soft smile and a curious flush on her delicate face. Then, her lips parted, and she spoke, her voice gentle, reverent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"His name is Kieran."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa stopped in her rummaging through a drawer for thread that would suit the cuff, looking back with a joyous smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's a wonderful name!" She turned, her eyes sly and her mouth curving in a sardonic, prying lilt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>devilishly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>irreparably handsome? He must be, in order to catch someone like you!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym laughed again, her giggling hidden behind a delicate hand, and Rosa began to laugh with her, as Lauren looked between the both of them with deadpan exasperation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"The both of you--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Sorry, sorry!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Rosa said through pitched, chiming laughter, adjusting the ribbon around her head as it slipped in her mirth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I--guess he is," Lauren cut in, her voice holding a curious note. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet--!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>tell him I said that!" Lauren protested, waving her hands before remembering that she probably shouldn't, what with the tulle encasing her wrists precariously. Rosa, realizing that she'd gotten off topic, picked up the needle again and began to mark the spots she needed to amend.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Whyever not? You should, I think." Rosa smiled slightly. "Men secretly </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>when you compliment them--it boosts their ego, in a way."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ah, if I did that his head would really swell, and then that handsome nature would be diminished!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa broke out in peaks of laughter, and Kym muttered something incomprehensible under her chuckling. Lauren smiled too, feeling happy, joyful, perfectly at ease in the rather homely studio. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame…?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Rosa turned to Kym, who responded with her name as such.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Have you got someone, then? A man to compliment?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym threw back her head and laughed, flipping her hair behind her ear as she held up a hand, pointing to her own ring finger. "That I do!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"For longer than me, in fact." Lauren cut in, twisting her wrist to test out the new fit. It cuffed and left the fabric to bunch deliciously at the drapes of her limbs, rendering her in fitted elegance and subtle femininity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Might </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to compliment him, then?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ah--" Kym spread her fingers. "I think I might!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Will would appreciate that from you, I think!" Lauren smiled knowingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I rather think if I went up to him and told him I found him handsome he'd ask if I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling </span>
  </em>
  <span>well--!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other two women began to laugh, and when Kym joined in again the whole room was filled with it. It seemed to brighten some part of the wide parlor, the light seemed denser and richer, and the pink roses nestled into the corners seemed to perk up, like their joy and blessed youth was their only salve, the blooms their only savior. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And you, Rosa?" Kym asked innocently, once their laughter had sifted to a lull. Rosa looked at her curiously, and she elaborated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Have you--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh!" Rosa laughed. "No. I don't have the </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>for men--they're too much, sometimes!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren threw back her head and laughed at that, twirling slightly at Rosa's behest to get a feel for the fabric. She looked critically at the hem, before bending down and beginning to take up the fabric at the ankles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I've got my work, you know! I'm married to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it's just as much of a tribulation as marriage would be."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren nodded sagely. "I am impressed--you're so young! And very talented, might I say," she said kindly, gesturing down to the dress she wore in demonstration. Rosa flushed pleasurably, her face grateful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Thank </span>
  </em>
  <span>you! Frankly, I can't believe it either." She sighed, rising on her feet and reaching for her notebook to scribble notes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If you had told the little girl from the West that she'd be in Ardhalis main, designing for the highest in the land--" she indicated Lauren with a wave of her pen--"she’d have laughed in your face!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well--” Lauren smiled kindly. “You can laugh for different reasons now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Madame.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rose looked at her a minute. Then, with a soft smile, she nodded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she assisted Lauren with removing the dress, folding the goldenrod-colored fabric in waves over her shoulder with the utmost care. Once she was rightly situated, she gestured to the layer of tulle with some decision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can have the alterations ready in two days.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren looked shocked. “Two days!? That’s fast.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosa winked proudly, tossing waves of blonde over her shoulder in a kind of triumph. “I’m quick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned to Kym. “If you’d like, I could even make something for you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym made to wave her hands in protest, but Lauren cut in, nodding vigorously in agreement. “Oh, yes! Do! I’d love to--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Laur--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My treat, Kym.” Lauren looked over at her affectionately. “Besides, you were one of the people that bullied me into this--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And aren’t you happy I did--?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse you from the same treatment!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym stared for a few moments, but after minutes of intense deliberation she finally relented, turning to Rosa. The latter responded with a wide grin as she moved over to her and clasped her hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do look forward to it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren was infected by Rosa Darnley’s nature, the way she exuded joy and passion and the utmost confidence. She was surprised to find that it made her slightly envious--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But also slightly inspired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She could do that, too, possibly, if she only tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re going to make Ardhalis a better place.” Kieran had said, and it was not a question; he never questioned her on those matters, they were always fact, truth, never lies, never follies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren had twisted on her heels, answered with a deft flick of a wrist not yet adorned in golden satin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes. That’s the goal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And his voice at her ear reassured her, the voice of everyone who supported her reassured her, Kym and Will and her beloved uncle.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then make it happen, Chief Sinclair.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chief Sinclair. She tried the name out in her mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was untoward. Unoriginal. But she’d never been called that before, and the novelty excited her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she sat down in the same spot Kym had been in, flicking through her purse for an appropriate number of pence pieces to tip Rosa with, she heard Kym’s ecstatic voice drift in from the next room of dresses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you got anything in blue?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought you’d never ask, Kym. It appears we’re of similar mind!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What a </span>
  <em>
    <span>relief.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Little shorter than usual, but I wanted my Rosa chapter kfhsgshs </p><p>Baby. Angel. I love you. Didn’t think I’d have too much of an attachment to her but MAN. ROSA. &lt;3 Apologies for the lack of simpery in this chapter but I felt Rosa deserved her time :&gt;</p><p>But—I do see that it seems a lot of you guys love my ocs, and that makes me (*≧∀≦*) it’s so nice to see all of the affection for them! I love them so much too :)</p><p>Ahh—but the next chapter might make up for this hm 👀</p><p>On this note—I have an LaL chapter planned for Friday, and then after that is all bleak horizons as school commences ;_; my notoriously quick turnaround shall prevail, I suspect, due to procrastination, but if updates slow I have to attribute it to schoolwork ahh. Please be patient with your Peachie and know that I love you all! Thank you SO much for sticking with me, this summer was wonderful because of you all :D</p><p>OOH, ALMOST FORGOT—THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH FOR 2000+ HITS???!? AHHHHH ❤️I LOVE Y’ALL</p><p>Comments/kudos are pink roses, loves! &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. White Peonies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>White Peonies: happiness in marriage, bashfulness</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"--And then he got down on one knee, mud and everything--!"</p><p> </p><p><em> "Oh, </em> how positively <em> swimming!" </em>Mrs. Halsham clapped her dainty fingers together, her eyes very wide as the newly minted Mrs. Beaumont flushed pleasurably at the attention, fluttering her lashes as she waved a steady hand.</p><p> </p><p>"And that was it! <em> Unfailingly </em>romantic--"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, <em> definitely--!" </em></p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Beaumont laughed, nudging her husband next to her with a good-natured elbow, the former's normally pallid complexion steadily collecting a rosy flush at his wife's recounting of their engagement, which had involved a botched ring too wide for Mrs. Beaumont’s wide fingers, a mislaid timetable, and Mr. Beaumont’s polished shoes skidding in a puddle of soupy mud. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren looked down amusedly at her half finished plate, picking absently at the remnants of salad with her fork, pushing around the greens as she alternated between tuning into the conversation and delving into her own world. She wasn't much for fawning, and while she felt nice for Mrs. Beaumont, she could not muster up any significant and ebullient joy at the story of their nuptials.</p><p> </p><p>Beside her, Kieran, equally as bored, nudged her lightly under the table, leaning in once the conversation moved to Mrs. Halsham's own tale began, how she’d deliberately forgone the pink gingham because she just <em> knew </em>Mr. Halsham would propose, she had that kind of intuition after all--</p><p> </p><p>“--<em> do you think they’d have half as much intuition if they took on some of the role themselves?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran’s whisper reads like a welcome song in her ear, and she indicates that she’s heard him with a crisp click of a fork tine onto white china, a soft pout of her rouged lips, and a hand on his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Women want to feel like damsels once in their lives--I suppose that comes with being proposed to." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "Hm." </em>He hums in noncommittal agreement, his eyes still trained on the spouses of his colleagues, their conversing edging towards a lull, in which at any given moment, the Sinclair-Whites could be drawn into.</p><p> </p><p>Over the years Kieran's evident pleasure at being included in his colleagues’ everyday lives only seemed to fall to the background, never really disappearing. Though at the end of the night Kieran would be aching to tease the buttons of his collar open, and she'd be yearning for the heels on her soles to be kicked off and discarded in favor of settling on plush cushions, there was always an infectious enthusiasm ringing in the air, with the knowledge that this was normal, real, a thing regular people did in a regular life.</p><p> </p><p>As Kieran's attention was drawn by a man beside him, pulling him into a conversation about the upcoming exam season, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. His eyes shone with soft attention and acknowledgement, and she couldn't help the blooming feeling in her chest as she watched him move with ease, the conversation like a puzzle piece, words slotting in with perfect synchrony. It felt only too good, to watch him exist without the need to calculate a situation intensely.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "And you two?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It took a while for them to register that the high, prying voice was directed at them, but both Lauren and Kieran turned to find Mrs. Halsham smiling at them across the table, her thin hands framing her chin expectantly, in childish fervor, curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>"You both must have <em> some </em>story!" She clapped her hands, and the occupants of the table, evidently buying into that observation, turned to the Sinclair-Whites in anticipation.</p><p> </p><p><em> "Oh." </em>Kieran looked surprised. He gestured to the both of them in a form of weak question.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Our--?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes!” </em>She laughed. </p><p> </p><p>They looked at each other, at a loss. Turning back, Kieran waved his hand sheepishly, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Well—I’m afraid it’s <b>pretty boring, our story.”</b></p><p> </p><p><em> “Nonsense!” </em>Mr. Beaumont piped up from beside his wife, piece of steak poised in midair, neglected in favor of prodding Lauren, his eyes curious and keen.</p><p> </p><p>“Everyone heard stories about you, miss—“ he gestured with his fork, nearly flicking the whole cube of meat across the table, and his wife batted his arm away from within the general population’s firing distance. </p><p> </p><p>“—said you were unattainable, back in your day!” He laughed nervously. Lauren smiled tightly, waving a hand.</p><p> </p><p>“You say <em> ‘back in my day’ </em> as though I were horribly <em> old—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No! No of course I didn’t mean—“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Ah! Men!” </em>Mrs. Halsham lamented, turning back to a now abashed couple. “He’s making everything worse—just—tell us, about yourself! How you met—“</p><p> </p><p>Here she looked towards Kieran, who merely laughed, sneaking a glance over at his wife before back at his reluctant interrogator.</p><p> </p><p>“We met—about nine years ago, isn’t it? And<b> we hit it off </b> <b> <em>immediately—“</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>“He likes to say that—“ Lauren batted at his arm, cutting in with a sardonic smile—“the truth of it is, I didn’t like him very much.”</p><p> </p><p>“That hurts, <em> mon amour—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it, dear—I like you <em> now, </em> don't I? <em> That’s </em> the important thing.”</p><p> </p><p>The table broke out in mirthful laughter. Kieran waved a hand, blushing slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Right, right! Semantics—that was it, really. I did end up working with her for a time—we just went from there.”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “Not too romantic, I would say—“</p><p> </p><p>“Hm—“ Mrs. Halsham hummed, tapping her fingers on the side of her plate—“I don’t think so!”</p><p> </p><p>She beamed, her lips curving in a nice, matronly smile, and the way Mr. Halsham looked at her, you wouldn’t wonder why her intuition was so great on the day of her engagement. </p><p> </p><p>“Everyone’s story has value—to them! Doesn’t much matter if it doesn’t <em> seem </em>romantic, if you felt it was in the moment.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren couldn’t help but smile, throwing a knowing glance to the man beside her, who laughed breathlessly, a soft flush in his cheeks, rather like that of an earnest boy at the attention.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Mrs. Beaumont spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“And your engagement story?”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran looked over at her, abashed. “I—“</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t try and get out of it, now!” She waved her hand. “I do love hearing them, so!”</p><p> </p><p>”They’re always so endearing!”</p><p> </p><p><em>“Oh, </em>won’t you tell us, Mrs. Sinclair-White?”</p><p> </p><p>“Come <em> on, </em> Professeur White!” One of the men egged, shooting him an elbow and leaving Kieran floundering helplessly. “You <em> must </em> have a story—how you managed to convince <em> her—“ </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Hey!” </em>Kieran shouted indignantly, earning him good natured laughter, most of all from Lauren, who was finding she was secretly enjoying her husband’s embarrassment, to distract from the slight rising feeling of her own in her belly.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran shook his head, muttering. “I’m—sure. It was a long time ago, <b>I probably don’t remember it all that well—“</b></p><p> </p><p>One of the women gasped. “You <em> can’t remember—?!” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “No, no!” </em>Lauren finally spoke, and all eyes trained on her, the woman with bells and a soft, mischievous chime in her voice, most of all Kieran, who was shooting her a look mixed with helplessness and exasperation. She merely tilted her shoulder at him, curving her lips in a positively Cheshire grin as she leaned forward, a hawk to her prey.</p><p> </p><p>“He <em> does </em>remember it well—as do I!”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran huffed petulantly, falling back dramatically against his chair, arms crossed, muttering incoherent indignances under his breath. But his lips, they did curve, and Lauren noticed this with a delightful pang. She turned back to the assembled company, spreading her fingers in demonstration. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you, don’t worry—I <em> did </em>think it was pretty romantic.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran looked over at her, his eyes holding a curious note, and she shot him a look back, quirking her eyebrows and smirking, like a cat who’d finally, finally gotten at the canary. </p><p> </p><p>“Kieran <em> loves </em>this story,” she said, sly, coy, and the whole table leaned in fervently.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Really, </em>darling?” He clicked his tongue, and she only laughed, leaning forward with one glove-clad hand on her chin, the fabric kissing her skin.</p><p> </p><p>“It was—oh, about four years ago, now? And the sky, it was lovely, too…”</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Kieran <em> did, </em>in fact, remember, and remember vividly, too. How could he forget, the wash of white petals and the way the sun bled onto the manor’s porch steps, the way she’d wrapped her arms around him in wild abandon? </p><p> </p><p>He remembered so well, not only because the day would go down in his life as one of the happiest; but due to the fact that it could also be codified as the most downright <em> embarrassing. </em></p><p> </p><p>Spring had come upon Ardhalis like a latent flower, the petals spreading and leaving warm breezes to waft down street corners and the soft down of buds to nip at the heads of passersby. It was the first spring Kieran had truly experienced in five years--the past innumerable left to wither behind the unsatisfactory greys and charcoals of a cell in the Tower. </p><p> </p><p>The days had passed with an somnambulatory gait, sun beams descending behind low clouds and casting twilight shadows on brick and brimstone, on the trees beginning their burgeoning, and within those days he could pinpoint little pockets of happiness, the little things he’d always wished he could write in the ledger of his mind, mark them as memories. </p><p> </p><p>So when Lauren, startlingly bashful, had asked him tentatively if he’d want to keep her company while she upkept the Sinclair manor, left empty by her uncle’s business trip, he’d merely hummed in a show of false indifference, and then nodded assent, packing up the bundle of flowers he’d been working on and made his way over with disguised haste, as though he hadn’t already agreed in his mind with enthusiastic fervor, the moment she’d given him that sweet, hesitant smile and inquired so earnestly.</p><p> </p><p>And so Kieran finds himself on the steps of the Sinclair manor, knees hunched over a small marble step as he strips leaves from the bottom of a long peony stalk, watching the ivory petals unfurl in crisp folds, like crimped rolls of coconut wash, of creamy spring blossoms. It’s a meticulous and mechanical practice, and it almost distracts him from the figure sitting behind him, her figure ensconced in a small rocking chair, her hands thumbing through various pamphlets. </p><p> </p><p>Almost. Because on this day, on the day Kieran White embarrasses himself beyond belief, they are anything but mere rosebuds blooming on a spring day like all the others. They sit together, facing away from each other, her lips curving in a pout as her keen honey eyes scan the sheafs of paper, his pressed in wavering concentration as his fingers deftly prune the peonies, and the space is inhabited by their presence, their ease and fluidity. </p><p> </p><p>And, as is the will of the assassin and the officer, they are in the throes of a mild argument.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I just don’t see why you can’t just be firm with them--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“If I had wanted to be <em> firmer, </em>I would have brought my bloody pistol!” She laments, her fingers turning a page of the real estate brochure with unnecessary force. He scoffs at her stubborn nature, a thing that would always remain to prod at his mind like a stick poking a sleeping lion, and he shook his head as he watched another leaf bleed from a veridian stem, pointedly not turning back, so he wouldn’t have to see what he already knew was there: a belligerent set to a proud jaw, a hand climbing through crimson waves of hair.</p><p> </p><p>“I just didn’t think it was like you to take it standing down, officer,” he says blithely. He can <em> feel </em>the glare she shoots at his head, can see clearly in his mind the irritation radiating from her as he hears the chair creak with motion. The air is soft, warm, beautiful, and he supposes she only could match that, even in indignance.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m trying to buy back an estate that should have been <em> rightfully </em>mine--I’m being as firm as I possibly can,” she huffs, crossing and uncrossing her legs. </p><p> </p><p>“Then--?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re adamant on making my life as difficult as possible,” Lauren grumbles, and Kieran resists the urge to snort, focusing on avoiding over-pruning the hapless peony in his fist. </p><p> </p><p>“Just tell them you’re--what, <em> A Sinclair, </em> all high-and-mighty like, and they’re sure to believe you absolutely, because you are <em> so very compelling--” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I would advise you to quit making fun of me, if you don’t want to be labeled in the latter category alongside them, <em> subordinate,” </em>she retorts, and he sets down the peony he’d been toiling at down on a pile of others already given the same treatment, picking up another one to begin his ministrations. This one is blemished, the edges of the petals airbrushed with beige and sepia, dirt that was too ingrained to fade. He frowned, but continued anyway, noting that it would make a good centerpiece to an arrangement, and perhaps he could even paint it, capture the brown and gold--</p><p> </p><p>“The main gripe they have is that I’m not--<em> married!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>He stops for only a beat, his heart not quite stopping in his chest, though it feels eerily similar. He hums to hide to pause in his breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p> </p><p>“You would <em> think </em>, seeing as I’m in a high position--”</p><p> </p><p>“--that you are, detective--”</p><p> </p><p>“--that it would lend some credence to the claim that I’m--<em> clearly </em>an independent, functioning member of society--”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t really know what they’d want, otherwise--”</p><p> </p><p>“They want me to find a nice husband and prove that I have more worth than just--I don’t know, my <em> job??” </em>He can only imagine the way she throws her hands up, and the way the white sleeves of her gauzy housedress, playing at her ankles like butterflies, pools at her elbows as she expresses her exaggeration, and he supposes he doesn’t have to imagine much for the picture to be true.</p><p> </p><p>She clicks her teeth, looking down at the book in her hands. “I suppose it’s only something I have to deal with, if I want to buy back--my childhood home.”</p><p> </p><p>She says it with awe, almost as though she doesn’t quite believe it herself, what she’s saying. It almost makes him turn, that, but as he strips another bit of oppressive leaf from a stem, he only laughs, a warm huff through his nose that contrasts the generous spring breeze trickling by like broken sugarcane, like gentle silk on stone. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re dead set on it, then.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a question, and she understands that. He imagines she nods, her lips pressed in a small pout, her fingers playing nervously with the fabric at her waist. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course I am--I mean.” She pauses. “I haven’t lived in that house for over a decade--and I suppose I could say it has some--bad memories--”</p><p> </p><p>She cuts off, her breath hitched, and he waits for her to continue, patiently, waits for her to build her bridges, fight her war, the one she’d always win out of.</p><p> </p><p>“--but it’s still a place I remember well,” and he can hear the smile in her voice, “I remember feeling happy, there.”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs, a languid curve of her shoulders, and rests her elbow on the chair, her chin in her palm and eyes trained on the cherry trees outside, pink and rose petals flying off their hinges and dispersing in the air like a gentle swarm of gossamer.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess I just--assumed it would be a good place for us to start over.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs. “Us?”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses, and he realizes what he’s just said. He trains his eyes more resolutely on the flower in front of him, his eyes unfocusing around silvery blossoms.</p><p> </p><p>“I--of course.”</p><p> </p><p>She says it almost incredulously, and he has to laugh, has to shake his head in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“I just--thought…”</p><p> </p><p>“No--”</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t safe for me to assume, I get it--” her voice is terse, tight, and she clicks her tongue, her lip worrying her bottom teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“I just…” she looks down, where her fingers clutch at white cotton. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard to leave that apartment, sometimes.” Her back hits the chair, and he can feel the wicker creak with her divine weight, listless, like she is nothing at all, as though she hasn’t said something horribly damaging.</p><p> </p><p>He does think about it, sometimes. About the empty pocket in his heart when he wakes up, tangled in sheets that had seen the wake and scorch of a forest fire, of red and gold, only to find that it is only him, and him alone; about how the mornings when he comes to her humming and attempting another futile mission for toast at least a modicum of edible are his most treasured; about how when he opens the door for her he feels lighter than air, and when he watches her leave it is like lead pressing into his heart. </p><p> </p><p>He does think, sometimes. And it had always been shot down, killed in a merciless slaughter of crows, because he supposes that is what he will always be. </p><p> </p><p>But something, now, stops him from his purge of his wild distractions, stops his hand from stripping another peony of its stifling foliage.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it's the way she says it, just as forlorn as him, perhaps it's the way he can feel the waves of her nightdress drifting over the porch boards in a gentle sway of fabric, perhaps the little breeze that wafts by gives him the nudge he needs, because he finally turns, his back twisting, palm on the floorboards, and he doesn’t think this one through, really, despite all his previous rumination and hesitance, and he’d always hesitated with her, but he doesn’t when he goes and says--</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Would you want to marry me?” </em>
</p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Halsham began to laugh, a little chime behind varnished fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“So he just--blurted it out? No--”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s how it went!” Lauren said gleefully, enjoying the deepening flush on her husband’s face with more schadenfreude than she would typically be disposed to impart. </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re going to make fun of me at my expense at <em> least </em>understand--“</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! No--I’m not--” Mrs. Halsham laughed, waving a hand at Kieran. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“In fact--” Mr. Beaumont hummed, a hand stroking his chin--”It’s actually quite romantic!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh--” Lauren shook her head, smiling softly. “I thought it was.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran shot her a look, and when she returned his gaze she noticed his eyes were curious, gentle, almost surprised. She gifted him a clandestine lilt of her lips, and his face brightened, poignant with happiness.<br/><br/></p><p>“I was just...caught off guard, is all.” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck, his bashful blush befitting a young boy who’d just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Lauren laughed, patting his shoulder in a mockery of sympathy.</p><p> </p><p>”I seem to do that a lot, hm?”</p><p> </p><p>He throws his head back, his back falling against the chair cushion, and his hair falls in front of his face, black sweeping over honest blue.</p><p> </p><p>”You do.”</p><p> </p><p>A round of cooing, and Lauren barely had time to feel winded before they were up again, wolves at her ankles, praying for any modicum of delicious insight.</p><p> </p><p>“And?” Mrs. Halsham asked eagerly. “What then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah--” Lauren paused. “Well, of course—I didn’t say yes right away!”</p><p> </p><p>The women at the table nodded sagely, apparently imbued with some secret knowing that the men in the room were not privy to. </p><p> </p><p>“Never say yes immediately!”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Perhaps that’s why we’re all walking on pins and needles about it,” </em>Kieran muttered under his breath, a finger teasing at his collar, as though the room were oppressively stifled. Somewhere in the peripheral Mr. Beaumont heaved a sigh, for which earned him a bat on the arm from his wife.</p><p> </p><p>Lauren merely shrugged, waving a hand in a demonstration of aloof carelessness. But the fond smile never left, a pink flush running down her cheeks like waterfalls of easy affection.</p><p> </p><p>“Eventually I did--that’s obvious.” Her fingers twisted the gold band on her finger, absently, the feeling of the metal a small comfort against her skin. </p><p> </p><p>“Were you doubtful?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren and Kieran looked at each other.</p><p> </p><p>“Well--”</p><p> </p><p>“It was a decision.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh--” Mrs. Beaumont waved a hand. “No, of course. I think we’ve all had to--but. Did you ever doubt…”</p><p> </p><p>The Sinclair-Whites looked around at the assembled company, their faces blank for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>Then, they smiled, a smile only they’d know.</p><p> </p><p>“Not a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>It takes Kieran approximately ten seconds of tense, unadulterated silence to realize what exactly he’d just said.</p><p> </p><p>His mouth opens like a gaping fish, and he turns rapidly back to his flowers, words stunted on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I--oh my god--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Forget-- </em> forget I said <em>anything</em>--”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He half pivots at the sound of her voice, so commanding, so firm, and turns fully when he sees her looking at him blankly, closing the spine of the brochure with a delicate wave of paper, her fingers creasing the seams in taut patience, like she would boil over any second.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s talk about this.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms around her chest, and he looks at her challengingly, because they are about to, he can sense, make another deal, wager another stake on a game of their own making.</p><p> </p><p>“I--” he looked down at the flowers, then back up at her again, honey meeting gold, palms flat against the porch, almost in supplication. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Do </em>you want to get married?”</p><p> </p><p>She looks at him in incredulous disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t about the house, is it--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “No, </em> it’s not about the <em> damn </em>house!” He barks, voice slightly sour. She moves backward a little at his tone, and he softens, his eyes a storm.</p><p> </p><p>“Then--?”</p><p> </p><p>He stares.</p><p> </p><p>“You--want to marry me?”</p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth, then closes it again. It feels like words are stuck in syrup in the back of his throat, and he’s unable to articulate anything other than a slight “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes--?”</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“I--” he pauses, looking up at the sky, at myriad dots of white and blue. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes--I want to marry you.”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything.</p><p> </p><p>“You know I’m not lying,” he says softly, his voice barely a wisp in the soft spring breeze that flits by, and he watches as her face opens, unfurling like a peony bloom, and he can finally see the vulnerability, the slight tang of doubt.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to say anything.” He turns back, hunching over his knees as he presses a shear to the tip of a peony stalk, nipping the end with force. “I understand that it’s not--”</p><p> </p><p>“There you go, assuming things again, Kieran. I haven’t even said anything!”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing needs to be <em> said, </em>officer--” he laughs bitterly. “I know--”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop.” </p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head back, lets the spring petals kiss his cheeks, and finally swivels to look at her, peonies forgotten on the steps as he levels Lauren with a furiously blank expression, schooling his raging emotions with a grit of his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s discuss this rationally.” She stops. </p><p> </p><p>“Why do you want to marry me?”</p><p> </p><p>He heaved a sigh, swinging his legs down the porch steps and looking resolutely at his fraying pant legs, the sepia fabric torn with use. </p><p> </p><p>“I--” He stops, thinks about it, <em> really </em>thinks.</p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t have to leave, anymore…” he starts, his voice tentative, but confident, sure that what he was saying was the truth. </p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Yes--”</p><p> </p><p>“And financial-wise--” he stops. “Well. You have the money. That’s not an incentive for me--”</p><p> </p><p>“--but it would be nice if we didn’t have to bicker about who’s paying.” She smiles lightly, and the relief it brings him is palpable in the way one of his own emerges on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“And--” he stops, his breath taken by reluctance, by the leap of faith he takes.</p><p> </p><p>“I just--want to be with you.” He says, looking down at the marble steps, at the bushel of peonies by his side, anywhere but her, so he doesn’t have to face the judgement he knows will come. <br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em> “I want you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He turns away as a deathly, lethal silence descends upon them, and the shadows the awning of the Sinclair Manor casts almost invites a raging thunderstorm, waves of water and vicious lighting on his countenance, on the shame bubbling in his chest at the admission that he want her, he wants her by his side and in his bed and existing in his spaces.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright.”</p><p> </p><p>He starts, turning to her and watching the way she folds her hands in her lap, an arbiter coming to an overpass.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess what you’re saying isn’t entirely unreasonable.” She hums, decidedly avoiding his searing gaze, her fingers playing with thin white silk. </p><p> </p><p>“Your turn.” he says, and her head snaps to his.</p><p> </p><p>“Mine--?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, smiling a little. She stares, then tilts her head, scarlet tendrils falling out of her carefully composed bun as she reflects.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I can’t find anything to oppose the point.” She pouts her lip in thought, and Kieran has to stifle the urge to move across the porch towards her, take her hand in his to stop its frantic fiddling.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re both in good positions financially--no exterior factors barring the way--”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs harshly, shakes his head in opposition. “You seem to forget one <em> small </em>thing.”</p><p> </p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “What--”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m--” he gestures to himself, his laughter sardonic, sour--”not <em> exactly </em> someone you’d want to take up with, <em> darling.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Her lips part in astonishment, then slowly curve in a sneer. </p><p> </p><p>“Is <em> that </em>what this is about--?”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t deny that my past does us <em> no </em>favors--”</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran--”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would you want to saddle yourself with a murderer--with a <em> mons--” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Shut up for a second.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her graceful hand shoots out, palm open, and her eyes are so fearful any lesser man than he would probably cower. </p><p> </p><p>“Kieran White--” she leans forward, his full name falling off her lips easily, like a song with no harmony, only searing notes of clarity. </p><p> </p><p>“--you are a respectable member of society--an esteemed professor, a scholar.” And here pride bleeds into her voice like a steady river, and he cannot miss the way her eyes melt, the way she smiles like smooth butter.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re kind, intelligent--you give coins to the orphans on the street, still, when they ask. You buy bread from the baker on the days she bakes blemished ones, you talk to your students like you’d speak to your own family--”</p><p> </p><p>She stops, blush rising to her cheeks. “You’re...easy on the eyes--”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran smirks, despite himself. “Really. Keep going--”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Be quiet. </em>And--though you’re insufferable, infuriating--” she pauses, her mouth hidden behind her fingers as she leans her elbows on her knees--</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a good man.” she says quietly, and he stiffens, his eyes wide. </p><p> </p><p>“Any woman would be lucky to have you.” She turns away, and her hair sways in the wind, highlighting a delicate, pronounced profile, the high, proud pout of her jaw and lips, the gentle grace of her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, hides his burgeoning, boyish grin behind a knee, drawing it up around him and staring out to the cobbled street outside, where women in myriad fruit-colored skirts swirl around men in dappled boots and children skipping through a tangle of arms and feet. He looks over their heads, the sea moving as he unfocuses, his thoughts racing, screeching and halting with baited breath.</p><p> </p><p>“I could throw all of that back at you, officer.” He says, muffled into the sleeves of his undershirt. She turns to him and he begins, pouring it all out, as though some dam in his throat had been closed for so long, finally kicked open by heeled feet.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the best detective of your time--possibly more than that--” he turns infinitesimally, so he can see her from his peripheral, her visage hazy, kaleidoscopic fractals of red and gold and white that converge into a point that he treasures.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re sharp and smart and--” he looks over at her, hopeless, “--<em> so fucking </em>beautiful it’s unimaginable—”</p><p> </p><p>She makes to protest, but he only shakes his head, keeps going--”you’re so much better and so much—<em>more</em> than I’ll ever be—and—“</p><p> </p><p>He throws up his hands, looks at his palms in distaste. “--you’d make any man happy. I don’t know how I manage to even compare to the amount you deserve.“</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, somewhere, he thinks he hears her mutter, low, under her breath, <em>“You assume I’d want another man, idiot.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Silence. She stares him down belligerently, her chin tilted proudly, like a hawk at her kill. He lifts his head, levels her with a gaze befitting, and that is when she sighs, releases the set of her shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“So. We’re both at somewhat of an agreement.”</p><p> </p><p>He quirks an eyebrow. “It seems so.”</p><p> </p><p>“We both don’t think we deserve each other--” she looks up. “--And we’re both hopeless.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, and she joins him this time, all bells and chimes. </p><p> </p><p>“So why don’t we make that our common goal?”</p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth, then closes it, seeming to make that a habit, in the wake of her grace.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, then.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. “I’ll marry you, Kieran White.”</p><p> </p><p>He tilts a shoulder at her, smirking impishly, his fingers steady. “I’ll marry you, Lauren Sinclair.”</p><p> </p><p>She purses her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal.”</p><p> </p><p>They look at each other, petals in the wind, peonies neglected under his palm.</p><p> </p><p>Then, Lauren’s face contorts, and she rises from her chair, white billowing around her like a ghostly spectre.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh-- </em>Kieran--”</p><p> </p><p>She moves towards him, and he incisively catches her as she throws herself at him, takes his jaw in her palms and kisses him with breathless ardor. He curls his arms around her waist, hoisting her in his lap and keeping her as close as he’d like her, which was never enough.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls back, panting, and his eyes dart to every beautiful feature on her face, the sharp curves and plump angles of her lips, nose, eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“You really want to marry me--?” He asks, hushed breath and thrown off kilter, and she nods fervently, kissing him once again, her touch searing, deep, imparting all she couldn’t say.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes--” </em> She hums against him, palms at his collar. “I wouldn’t want anyone else, Kieran-- <em> really.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “You would--I mean--” </em>he grimaces. “You know who I am and what I’ve done--”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought we established that it’s not a deal breaker, subordinate.” She draws back again, the most lovely smile playing at her lips, and he laughs, pulling her close again and laving her cheeks and eyelids with soft, chaste pecks.  </p><p> </p><p>“You’re willing to do this--?” she asks, and he nods, the only answer he’d ever give her.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want anything too grand, I hope you know,” she says, laughing, and when he pulls back, holds her arms in his fingers to steady her, he grins. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve had enough of grandiose displays.” She smiles, tucking her head under his chin. </p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough, I suppose.” He hums. “We’ll find some registry office--shouldn’t be too hard.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll talk to my uncle--”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” He draws back, reluctant. “What will he say--?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren frowned. “I hadn’t thought about it.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran sighed. “I’m sure it’s not what he’d want--”</p><p> </p><p>But Lauren only growled in displeasure, pressing him closer, their foreheads locked. </p><p> </p><p>“He has any gripes about it, he can answer to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran tightened his lips, but said nothing. He knew what the Chief’s feelings were about him--and it did nothing for the slight unease still settling in his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>But that left when she dipped her head, ran her hands over his cheeks to settle on his face, thumbing paths across the hard planes of his jaw, his bones, his heart. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose, then--Mrs. White--” he tries the name on his tongue, and it feels foregin, strange, but right in a way almost like finding home--”that this is to be our new endeavor?”</p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, however, she rears back, and he sees the displeased pout on her face. </p><p> </p><p>“Mrs. White--?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” He frowns. “You--”</p><p> </p><p>“Subordinate--” she clicks her tongue. “--bold of you to assume I’m giving up my name.”</p><p> </p><p>His face clears in understanding, and a sly grin spreads across his face. “Oh? Not willing to give up ‘Sinclair?’”</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed, no.” She shakes her head, pride lacing her tone. </p><p> </p><p>“Should have listed <em> stubborn </em>as one of your attributes--”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” she swats at his arm, and he laughs, his head thrown back, his hands traveling to her hips to steady her on his lap as he shifts. She moves with him, her head buried to his chest, and huffs indignantly, a finger teasing the loop at his collar.</p><p> </p><p>“Well--officer.” He looks down at her affectionately. “I’m not giving up ‘White,’ either.”</p><p> </p><p>She lifts her head to look him dead in the eye, one eyebrow raised.</p><p> </p><p>“What are we going to do about <em> that, </em>then, dear?” She asks.</p><p> </p><p>He lifts his eyes to the sky, hums low in his chest, and he does not miss the way she chases the sound like a salve, her palm over his heart where it emanates, his life, his joy, her, her.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose we’ll have to compromise, officer.” He looks down, his eyes inviting. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s what we do, after all--” she finishes, her hand rising. </p><p> </p><p>“--make deals.” He smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“So, then--”</p><p> </p><p>And their hands meet in the middle, scar to scar. It’s almost funny, how the long gash never fades, but never aches either, always stitched over with a new cauterization, fire and flame, cold blue. </p><p> </p><p>“Deal, subordinate?”</p><p> </p><p>He cannot contain the laughter, joyous, like a young boy, ebullient like the happiest man in existence. </p><p> </p><p>“Deal, Lauren.”</p><p> </p><p>He twists out of her grip, taking her fingers in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, and before he has time to draw back and speak all his joy, his love, she has taken a peony from the bunch, holding it between them and letting the soft petals tickle their skin. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not perfect; he hadn’t touched that white peony yet, hadn’t bled it of leaves and cared for it like it’d ought to have been cared for--but he loved it more than anything, could see the life and virility searing through the creamy petals, the yellow pistil crying nectar and honey. He laughed, and that was that.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll make you happy—“ he mutters into the hush of flower petals. “I’ll try my hardest, Lauren—really, I promise—“</p><p> </p><p>She smiles languidly, pleasurably, her cheeks dimpled with apple hues, satiated. “You already make me happy. You don’t have to.”</p><p> </p><p>The most embarrassing moment of his life, yes--but he couldn’t say anything to how fruitful it was.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be a sort of adventure, marriage.” she whispers to his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Hm. A game.”</p><p> </p><p>“A partnership.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiles. “Aren’t we good at those?”</p><p> </p><p>She matches him, her voice syrupy, viscous and affecting, like the melody of a song he’d never tire of.</p><p> </p><p>“We are.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lauren: yknow, I just like being with you-<br/>Kieran: 👁👄👁🖐🏽💍</p><p>Foole. Anyways.</p><p>On a related note, spontaneous proposal after Very Suddenly realizing that you love someone enough to marry them&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;planned, large proposals. There I said it.</p><p>Getting married in a registry office and having a dinner party afterwards&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;wedding ceremony there I said it</p><p>Comments/kudos are white peonies! &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Apple Blossoms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Apple Blossoms: peace, love, sensuality</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s always a little game.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right at that cusp, when her lashes flutter and splay strips of light onto her face, in her eyes and on the bed sheets, that’s when she begins, her mission.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was never one gifted with any propensity for ghostly stealth. Sure, she could soften her footsteps down to the whisper of cotton if she so chose, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>could, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if pressed, stifle her breathing until it would have barely touched thread with its tone, slink across alleys and channels as a silent body, wistful grace and smooth, clean lines. But she wasn’t her husband, wasn’t the trained assassin, with breathless steps like a predator.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So as she shifts her weight in their bed, trying desperately not to alert the man beside her, she takes this folly into account. How if she wasn’t careful he might sense the oscillations in padded goosefeather, the way she peels the tips of grey comforters back to reveal a slow, lynx-like twitch of her legs to the edge of the bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s almost there, and she stifles a latent, triumphant smile, the joy too ebullient to be expressed before she could really claim her victory. She almost relishes in the burgeoning sensation, as her nightgown slides across the mattress and she can almost taste the freedom of her mantle of blankets—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I thought you would have learned</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon amour.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ramrod snap to her spine only lasts for a moment, and when that irritatingly soft voice sounds at her ear, when a warm hand settles on her waist and curves over her stomach to pulls her backwards against another body, she concedes to the failure, her sigh every definition of despondent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Damn, mon bonheur. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I thought I had you this time,” she pouts, settling her cheek back into the cool press of her pillow, letting her eyes flicker closed in defeat. From behind her Kieran chuckles, the deep timbre grainy and hoarse with fractals of sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Sorry</b>
  <span>,” He murmurs into the dip of her neck, palms settling at the ridges of her nightgown, and she can feel his belligerent smile hidden at the curve of her throat and under the halo of crimson splayed at the base, the thing flushing affectionate irritation in her veins, still too bleary from a sleep stemming from a long week of work to protest it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm. No.” He holds her gently even in the fierce way he moves, like she is spun glass, something out of his reach, like his touch is sacrilegious so early in the morning, buds not yet spread to touch the caress of sunlight. Kieran is still brash and mischievous, even when he is half awake, and perhaps it’s a talent, his insufferability, the way even that makes her feel at ease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a win for me, though,” he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” She half turns, and he moves his back to accommodate her, their eyes meeting in a tentative, languid dance of oceans and honey stars. He smiles, that lazy one he gives when he doesn’t even have to try, the raw emotion stretching like practice on his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, he learns forward, and their lips are only a whisper, a note, a lyric apart, and he pronounces his dues with boyish glee, with a gleam like that of an arrow embedded home, marking the hunt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can stop you from getting to the coffee pot before me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She barks out a laugh, butting his head in indignance before turning around, huffing into the silk pillows as Kieran’s soft laughter reverberates through his chest, deep rumbles like the smooth baritone of a cello that she can feel in her belly as she arches closer to his touch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you admit that you make it a competition—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course! How couldn’t I?” She can hear the mocking lamentation in his voice, can see the way he throws his head back dramatically, even as she faces away from him, trying not to get distracted from the new plan formulating in her mind by the way his fingers toy absently with the pleats of her nightgown at her hips, the way the bed cocoons around the couple like a sanctuary of blunt fabric ridges, rendering it inescapable, the juxtaposition of cool silk and the fire hot coal of contentment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s amusing watching you wait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is </span>
  </em>
  <span>it?” She nudges him lightly, as best she can pressed to her side, a vaguely formed plan still emerging in her mind, as slowly, surely, she teases the covers back with the point of her feet, so subtly to not alert him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hums lightly. “I could feel you moving. You’re not—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“—silent, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes, I know. How long were you up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can feel his shoulders curve in a languid shrug, and she uses that movement to disguise the way her hands drift down, peeking the lip of the blankets off the both of them, ending with her palms resting innocently over his at her waist, taking one up to kiss the knuckles softly. He tilts his head until his forehead lays where her spine curves, and the soft way he clicks his tongue and furrows further into stationary bliss, the way he’s still gentle with her when he’s at her back, even now, it makes her feel that vaguely, she should be repentant for the betrayal to come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What were you doing?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He huffs, lips pursed. “Just thinking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is quiet for a minute, seeming to genuinely consider. Then, he shrugged. “Nothing. Can one say what you think about in the early hours of the morning?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His fingers are still loosely curved at her lips, and she laughs softly against them, closing her eyes. “No, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right. You just look at a point and let your mind drift, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well. I don’t know if I can argue with that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He let the back of his knuckles kiss her cheek in a barely-there, abstracted gesture, and she smiles, even as her body tenses, as she prepares.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How long were </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>up, officer?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” She rolled her neck slightly. “Only a couple minutes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And were </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinking of something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stops, slowly turning her head over her shoulder, throwing a glance at him from behind waves of her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well...truth be told—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—And you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>always tell me the truth—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinking…” she lets her voice trail off into a soft drawl, and as he cocks his eyebrows, looks at her with that endearingly expectant tilt of his brow, she strikes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She twists out of his grip and bounds off the bed, and because he’s so caught off guard he seems to barely register that she’s now darting to the door, throwing back a cry of victory as the floorboards creak with a night of disuse, as she barely misses stumbling over one of his shirts on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That I’ll get coffee before you do, today!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren just barely catches the figment of indingance he shouts back, halting </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>wholly ignored in her haste, as her laughter rings through the silent, sunlit house, as her bare feet pad down the stairs and towards the kitchenette, leaving him behind to catch up to her, to bound out of the comfort of their shared bed with the grace of a practiced hunter and chase after her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can hear Kieran’s twin footfalls landing into the stairs, and she continues to evade him, hiking up her gown in a fist, swinging herself off the banister and using the motion of her fingers on carved mahogany to propel herself forward. She barely manages to skid onto the kitchen tile, unhook the coffee pot with fingers still shaking with adrenaline, before he’s there, catching his breath by the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watches her in slight contempt for a moment, arms crossed around his thin cotton shirt, ankles locked as he leans against the archway, observing keenly the way she starts up the brew, throwing him a smug look, possibly unbecoming of a victor, but deliciously taunting nonetheless, the sweet taste of revenge in her extremities, dripping off her fingertips and playing a game on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Here--" she said, reaching over the counter and tossing him a small, beige packet, which he caught swiftly, bending slightly to read the label in the morning light steaming through the wide windowpanes, filtering through bronze lining.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Little apple blossoms curved in parchment pressed titanium and soft blushing hues of peach, and he held up the small pouch in exasperation, rattling the bag and hearing the tea leaves sift in plush chimes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Really?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's that tea Kym brought over once!" She smiled, raising a brow. "Might be good for you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Tea??" </span>
  </em>
  <span>He groaned, rubbing sleep out of his eyes exaggeratedly. "Darling--I'll be a dead man walking by noon!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hm," she studied her nails in mock contempt, but her eyes shone with mirth and affection. </span>
  <b>"All the better for me--some peace and quiet is in order around here--"</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>that's </span>
  </em>
  <span>what you think of me--" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushed off the door, grin wide and feet prowling as he made his way over, her own gaze preoccupied with a bag of coffee grounds, shifting bunches of the dark compact in her fingers like silt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't see the antagonism against tea, Kym told me apple blossoms are quite ni--</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her shriek sounded as he cut her off, looping swift arms around her waist, picking her up as though her weight was no more than that of a partridge feather, and depositing her, protesting vehemently, by the side of the coffee pot. He smiled winningly, his eyes twinkling as he tossed the teabag at his wife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tit for tat, darling." He said smugly, affectionately, picking up where she's left off. "Have your own tea."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffed in indignance, leaping forward to attempt to push him away from the counter, but he resisted humoring her completely, wanting payback for the way she'd slipped out of his grasp minutes prior, and held steadfast to the counter, holding the coffee out of reach and planting his bare feet firmly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You sore loser! I was--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Never </span>
  </em>
  <span>assume you've won with me, officer!" He laughed, twisting his body to dodge her attacks, their two forms dancing the familiar waltz they indulged in, the familiar fight of slips and lithe sways of experienced feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No, I suppose I shouldn't, if you're not going to play </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"When have I ever played fair?!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>He whirled on his feet, attempting to kick at her ankle lightly as a deterrent, but she, knowing the way his hips arched and legs treaded forth, leapt out of the way, white fabric caging her legs and billowing in apple blossom furls, pleats dancing like a flame around their feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"True--" she conceded, her lips thoughtful for only a brief moment, and he could only manage to register the fleeting glimpse of cunning, pensive eyes, a glint of sharp, hawk-like conviction, before--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Then, I think, my husband--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She started forward, the teabag discarded by her side in favor of startling movement, of a leg shot out to cage a weak knee, catching the weakness and bringing him swinging downward--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"--I have full permission to play </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>as dirty!'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finds himself caught, splayed out on the kitchen floor in defeat, Lauren astride him, her legs around his waist and smile very wide, and he supposed the role of the canary caught by the persistent cat is not such an egregious thing to play, if the game is orchestrated by her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Now," she says, voice happy and joyful, and she reaches up to stop the movement of his wrists towards her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I win." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to rebuke, but she shifts on his hips and taps her fingers against his beating pulse, and her hair falls about her sunlit face, drawing a scarlet curtain over the couple, bathed in simple morning pigments, and he knows that no, she's told a lie. He hasn't lost, not much of anything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So instead he merely murmers "I guess you have, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cœur," </span>
  </em>
  <span>and smiles warmly, headily, somewhere in his mind still sleepy and wan, slowly awakening by the invigorating feeling of her on top of him, keeping him rooted to the ground as he acknowledges the gift of that. No, he hasn't lost a thing. In fact, even the most welcome outcome of the war, a mug of coffee and a peaceful morning, couldn't hold a candle to this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leans down until their foreheads are pressed together, and he can feel the slight chill of her fingertips as they drift down to his jaw, kissing the slight triangle of skin at his collar and allowing him to bring his hands down to the swell of her hip over her nightgown. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Admit it.” She says, and her voice wavers slightly when he moves her on top of him, almost to distraction, and his smirk shouldn’t be that smug, that grandiose, but it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Admit I won.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughs, leaning up to gift a chaste kiss on the corner of her lip. He whispers, voice low.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sure,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he concedes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You won.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t miss the way she trembles as his warm hands lay claim to the curves of her waist, and he shouldn’t take so much pleasure in it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you lost.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this Kieran draws back to look her in the eye, and when his hands trail up her sides, when her lips part in surprise and pleased ardor, when his hand cups the back of her neck and brings her down to him, he laughs against the flush of her lips on his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have I lost?” He asks, and when they’re together like this she finds she cannot fault him for being so sure of himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later, when their breath is spent and hair mussed as though sleep had claimed them, Kieran takes up the teabag and shrugs, tearing open the pouch with his teeth and tapping the dried leaves into a mug, watching the whorls drift down in dry piles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren looks over at him in amusement, hand teasing the handle of a mug filled with chocolate liquid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really? After all that trouble?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hums noncommittally, looping an arm around her waist as he brings the lip of his cup to his lips, inhaling the scent of apple blossoms, the white overlay of spring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose it is time for something new,” he says, eyelid playing at a wink. Lauren can only roll her eyes, cradling her steaming mug in two palms as they sit together, her head resting on her husband’s chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s startling how easy living can be. How easy it is to simply exist, to live a day through as any other, how easy it is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She supposed existence is like that; an amalgamation of points that congeal into one life, a life spent in a spring morning, Kieran with her and keeping her toes off the ground, moving in a dangerous and wild chase, a facade of their roles as dire opposites. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, it is always a little game. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Y’all better prepare to have dentures because this fluff? Tooth rotty</p><p>Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the rest! Haven’t had much energy for anything too significant lately, but Knick and Nihilo were feeding me fluff and this was born. Consider it a little reprieve until the next chapter because that,,,,whoo boy 😀 but i did realize that the first couple of chapters were relatively short compared to the standard I hold myself to now, and I guess I wanted to relive the days where I could spit out mindless brain rot lol :&gt; enjoy! </p><p>Hope you all know how much I love you! AAoCaA hit 3000+ the other day and I. Will cry if you all are any nicer to me ;v; thank you all so much for the love, I cannot and will never be able to say it enough</p><p>Kudos/comments are Apple blossoms! &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Ivy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ivy: determination, resilience, faithfulness</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>VERY, VERY MILD TRIGGER WARNING. </b>This chapter explores themes of depression and slight suicidal thoughts. I encourage you to read with caution, mild as I think it is. Love you; you matter so much ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was something decidedly unsettling about silence in Kieran’s apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d attributed it to the work, over the years. After all, men more civil than he would come home and complain of the white noise accompanying their loneliness, the distinct lack of light and life in their houses. And so he too, would make that excuse, forge his way through dismissal and disappointment to rationalize the</span>
  <em>
    <span> fear </span>
  </em>
  <span>he felt, at silence, at quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was his work. You can’t come home covered in blood, and expect the silence to welcome you. It wasn't such a forgiving friend, after all, no more than screams, or wails or whines.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, though, he’s starting to rethink that, if he has the energy to think at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because there wasn’t any task for tonight. There hadn’t been a task for a while now; six months, if he was counting (he was). And so when he felt that creep of unease at the static silence, at the absence of colors or shapes in the recesses of his mind, the lack of substance—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. It was work. The constant song.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling above him, one arm draping off the couch cushions he’d settled himself onto for the night, he doesn’t know what to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a storm, except it is only that; a feeling. It’s the type of storm that silences the crickets and leaves only drumbeats of thunder, a scrape of iron metal at his tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s too quiet, save for the tap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>During the day he would collect all the sounds he could. There were so many new ones lately: the hum of a stovetop at periods throughout, the fresh wisp of a clean shirt, the heartbeat of china on porcelain at mealtimes, or the snip of shears as he and Lauren would prune the insistent ivy that would leech around the bricks of his house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Lauren.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever since she’d taken up temporary residence with him—to </span>
  <em>
    <span>decide, </span>
  </em>
  <span>on whether they should take the King’s offer or not—sounds and smells and warmth had come in droves and spades. Humming, off key yet still sugary and soft; footfalls, as she’d sprint through the house with bare feet; her voice, always the right pitch and tone, never sour or grating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Are you going to continue to burn things, darling--" he'd hear himself say, as she'd throw him a vindictive look over her shoulder and cant her hip--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Just shut up, subordinate. I'm being nice."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You are."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She would start at the sudden, sincere declaration, mumble in embarrassment, and move back to attempting to unstick the rapidly decaying egg from the ceramic skillet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But silence would remain, sometimes. In the pockets between words, in the spaces slanted amongst periods of happiness, it would come, grow and crawl and leap to his ears like the ivy boughs outside. Really, he should get a trellis for that thing, so it would stop growing over his windows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Night was the hardest. He’d always had a conflicting relationship with the stars and cooler hues; the moon and its allies, the way cobble and blood would bathe in underrated light. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now, it was silent. As lights clicked off, as the world accepted its slumber, so too would sound and industry cease, and Lauren would bid him a goodnight that appeared more reluctant as the days passed, and retreat to his bedroom. He’d insist, most fervently, that he wouldn’t dare come near, that he’d take the couch and she’d have all the space she wished for, and she’d concede only with a promise at gunpoint that he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>sleep on the couch, every night, without fail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s breaking that promise, now, as he lies awake, blue eyes prominent in a sea of blacks and greys as he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, as soundless fury permeates the solace of noise he would have wanted. He is in the habit of doing that: breaking promises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damn, he does deserve that headshot. She should just get it over with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip, drip, drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's more frequent. He sighs and shifts his arm so it won't fall asleep under his weight, stares up at the ceiling and tries to ignore that he can't make excuses anymore, that it isn't really silent, because the faucet in the kitchen is singing its own belligerent song. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a sound that should have lulled him to sleep, but not this night. Not the night of the storm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The familiar dregs of restlessness prickle like unwelcome thorns up his ankles and through his chest. Vines of it wrap through his limbs and leave him to heave through every breath, every new sight and lack of sound he doesn’t want to acknowledge. It’s too silent, and he imagines he can hear a wail, a scream as flesh is torn from bone, or something, he knows it’s there, can practically taste it on his tongue—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Damn—blasted thing—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>he mutters half heartedly into his sleeve, trying to ignore the irritation. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get up and turn it off, because though he’s not comfortable on the couch, it’s not something he feels is worth exerting energy for. Not really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After all; it would continue to drip. The faucet was mercurial, and as those things are it would just continue another day, let loose more tears, and what was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point, </span>
  </em>
  <span>really, of getting up and doing it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, Kieran reasons, as he turns to his side, presses one ear to the makeshift, starchy pillow he has folded under his head, to try and abate the jarring noise, like a brittle piano key. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, he says to himself, as he tamps down the urge to glance at his closed bedroom door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, he says to himself, as an excuse, because all he’s capable of is excuses, most days—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to wake the other patron of the house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because there is someone there, now, and she deserves more than his waifish feet and muffled curses, his silence, the stagnance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three extraneous droplets fall in rapid succession, and it’s like a trumpet riff blaring in his ears, a taunt, an invitation to a game. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran typically tolerates games. The royals are playing one with them now, after all. Freedom for silence and a life filled with worry. A game. A fun one, one with black and white pieces and no room left for greys.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I swear, you don't </span>
  </em>
  <span>think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes--" </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One stalk of ivy falls with a stifled whisper.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Lauren--just because I helped you doesn't make me a--" </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Another.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Can you stop--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two, three, four pool at their feet, juxtaposed in blood orange brick and mortar.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I deserve this! I don’t deserve anything at all-“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kieran. Please—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I don't want to do this with you right now," he said tersely, and went back to ripping the ivy from its boughs, ignoring the way Lauren looked at him in sorrow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets loose a breath of air, forceful, as though that would expel the haze from his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t work; he remains a portrait of useless limbs, of lashes dusting pallid cheeks and hair a mare’s nest about his aching head. Really, his head feels so numb, and he feels the urge to barge into Lauren’s room and simply ask if she’d hold the perfect ringlet of a pistol to his head, just to make sure he can still feel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shifts his legs, tugs his collar, tries in vain to close his eyes. But everything is still silent in the apartment. No gramophone music, of which there had been a surprising increase in over the past few weeks. No rustles of paper, no scratches of a ballpoint pen or the scrapings of an eraser swept off a canvas. No gentle feet, no soft breath and gentle laughter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is it possible, truly, to hear nothing? They say it isn’t, but Kieran is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> that here, in his apartment, where everything comes to die, where the world ends, true silence can be achieved for one who has lived a lifetime gorged on unwanted noise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wills himself, but no will comes. Something begs at his chest, pleading to be let out, but it would strain him to scream, to fall, to shake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is too hot, too humid, and shouldn’t he just go and pace for a bit, move his feet and finally find some use? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, but it’d be too much noise, and it’d wake Lauren, and if he woke Lauren in his pathetic, desperate attempt to feel, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> a goddamn thing, he’d never forgive himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It really is horrible, existing in one’s own silence. How did he manage, over this span of a near decade, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>live </span>
  </em>
  <span>like this? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s living, isn’t he? That should be what matters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It does matter, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all this, if he breathes another breath, heaves another day in his body, but never manages to make a sound?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What's the point? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He asks, and nobody answers, because at the world's end, everyone has forsaken him for the bliss of silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drop.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But there is something selfish in him that still wants for peace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s that same selfish thing that nags him every night, tells him he should open the door to his bedroom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the same selfish thing that wishes he could lay his head in her lap, have her run her steady fingers through his hair, in the daylight, unabashed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the same selfish thing that keeps him rooted to the sounds, to the crunch of latent ivy and the static buzz of a gramophone needle. It’s what keeps him putting on records, tapping his feet, smiling, singing with his breast. And if Lauren would just be content to watch then he would be too, because she’s having fun and he is too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the same selfish thing that wants to live.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a huff of resignation and a quiet “</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he shakes off the oppressive covers, straightens his spine and glowers balefully at the kitchen faucet, which still sings its steady song. It’s that selfishness, that leads him to his feet again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes accumulate to the surroundings: the pale moonlight filtering in through the singular window by the door and dancing off plates and china, revealing dust motes floating whimsically in the air and playing at a taunt; the grain of wood on floorboards, the sound of absolutely nothing at all, and the notably absent light from the crack in his closed bedroom door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grimaces. His legs and fingers are asleep, and his nerves stagnant, but his mind races. Up he gets, treading across his small parlor and creeping onto the kitchen tile, and it unnerves him, how even his </span>
  <em>
    <span>footsteps </span>
  </em>
  <span>are silent, barely even a murmur. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it so—he wants to slam his heels into the floorboards, shake the foundations of the apartment to its grainy core.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lethargically, so much so he barely realizes it, he moves to the sink. At the edge, he watches balefully as another glistening pearl of obstinate water falls from the tap and into the faucet well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grips the rim of the counter in two white palms, closing his eyes and letting himself drown again, wishing for an ocean below him, a pool of glossy water in the marble divot instead of pathetic droplets. If there was, perhaps he’d stick his head in, let his breath fan out around him in gemstones and blossoms, and allow his being to dissolve into absolutely nothing at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But there isn’t anything adequate for his wishes, and so instead he strains to listen to the modicum of sound the fragments produce: the radio hum of a lone car outside, passing his apartment carelessly, the world moving like his isn’t slowly tilting off his axis. The quiet wash of a street lamp over cobbled stone, chocolate waves of yellow light illuminating a woven canopy of ivy descending over the window panes. Kieran would watch as the ivy crept to obstruct the view of the outside world, as though caging him inside his own home, a prison of itself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How fitting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Turning back to the sink, he bit his lip in consideration. It would take some effort, he thought, to turn the knob, to stop the bleeding of the tap, effort he felt he did not have. It would be horribly easy, surely—but for some reason lost on him, he did not feel the need.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he allowed it to drip, to run its course, it would just be another noise in the soundless apartment, another discordant puzzle piece in a life lived in fractures. If he allowed things to continue on without him, it would do exactly that. Leaves would fall, water would flow, a moon would remain unblighted. The ivy would grow to encase the entire house, forging his existence into a sheer matter of nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> better off, without a monster such as himself to wake in the middle of the night, and wreak the simple havoc of absolute and utter silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He considers opening the door, wandering into the night and letting himself dirty his hands, bleed his swollen eyes dry into the river, to disappear as soundlessly as he had come. That way the King needn't bend over backwards for the both of them, he needn't live in guilt anymore, he needn't--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren would be fine. He never deserved to exist in her spaces, to have her near him, and as he threw a glance again to his bedroom door--</span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>bedroom door--he knew this glaring fact more than ever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it would alleviate some of the tense pain on her face sometimes, when she'd watch him and delude herself into thinking he didn't know she was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like he couldn't feel her every look on his skin like a branding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She'd be better off, wouldn't she?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He groaned, one hand carding through his hair as he grimaced against his resounding thoughts. He shouldn't be </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>pathetic, not when he needed to--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip. Drip. Dr--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a sudden burst of resignation, Kieran fought against the protests of his limbs and brain, reaching forward to turn off the faucet for good. He grasped the chilly metal in a resolute palm, pulled with decisive strength—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tried again, cursing low under his breath as he twisted the knob.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip. Drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a final tug of exasperation, he bent the knob all the way to its antithesis, and that's when the dam burst.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a force he was wholly unprepared for, a crystalline deluge of water burst from the seams of the tap, cascading down in a tremendous surge, over his feet and splattering unevenly over the kitchen tile. He cursed, audibly this time, as his simple cotton shirt soaked through, his entire front doused in spray.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only thing he found driving him to actually stop the faucet, was, surprisingly, the rising thought that Lauren wouldn't particularly be appreciative of being flooded in. If it were anything otherwise, be recognized that his lack of effort would extend to the predicament he had now placed himself in. Damn him, really, for trying to do anything at all. He’s so tired. He should sleep, right here, with water crushing him whole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Frantically, as he felt the water begin to kiss a dangerously high point on his bare ankles, he twisted the knob, until it chimed and groaned with the force. With a final jam of the heel of his palm the water ceased, a final fleeting flood of it disappearing down the drain, as though it were the simplest, most normal thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a few moments, silence once again descended on the apartment as he stood there, feet planted in a pond of water. For a few key moments of disbelief, his reaction lagged, and he simply blinked as water dripped from the ends of his shirt and dragged in lethargic rivulets down his wrists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, slowly, as though in a film, he looked down at the soft ripples at his feet. It painted over the white tile like a sheet of clear varnish, and Kieran, still registering it, reached a hand over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He dug his fingertips into his skin, barely feeling the sensation of a substantial wave of water wash over his legs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The damage, it’s quite a lot. Of course it is; he’s the one who caused it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran White, through a lifetime of necessity, had become a proactive man. If he were in a right mind, he would have reached for a towel almost immediately, would have worked to stop the water from limping further across his kitchen floor and onto the carpet. It wouldn’t do to have mold grow; and it certainly wouldn’t do to have to walk over damp cotton for weeks. Weeks he didn’t really have, as either way he’d be leaving the apartment for the foreseeable future.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, Kieran did nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He did nothing, he said nothing, he felt nothing. No despair, no regret or hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All it was, there, was the empty chasm of water at his ankles, scraping his skin back like a particularly persistent pad of sandpaper. He felt only that, only that pressing need to drown, to curl up and shrivel and shake, as he slowly moved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned, looking out at the cold depths of his small, silent space, at the edges of the water crying for the carpet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, slowly, hands on the counter, he slid down until he sat squarely in the flooded sea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instantly he felt the water soak his pants, but he found he couldn’t quite bring himself to care, as he felt the cold solace wring over his skin. It was something akin to a comfort; a frosty embrace that stood as the warmest he’d ever deserve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a weary sigh, one with the hankerings of contempt and sorrow picking at his bones like vultures, he curled up like a defeated cat, arms around his soaked knees and head nestled in the divot of his limbs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He allowed the silence to take him in, gave it permission to rip him apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t quite know how long he sits there, alone. He can hear the passing of another car, the steady ripples of water like burbling sea life, but he never notes how many minutes have passed since the infraction, how many years he’s spent wasting his time in limbo. He forgets simply for the purpose of continuing another day, and when he knows the absence of noise like a friend, he knows it’s time to fade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, in blissful silence, a door opens. Literally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t see through his shirt, but his peripheral senses the sliver of light that now reaches through a crack, the soft wail of a door’s rusted hinges. Padded feet, the hush of white silk over delicate ankles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, silence again, and he can feel the way she stands and looks at him. He feels it so palpably he’d have laughed, if it weren’t for the budding reverence within him, somewhere, that yearns to preserve the quiet in which he hurts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But when she steps in, he can feel it. He always feels her presence in his life like a pebble displaced in water, creating a riptide in a pond of unsettled discourse. He can feel the reverberations in the water as she strides with her sure, confident steps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He raises his head, but he only looks forward. Kieran fears, most horribly, that if he chances a look at her, he’ll shatter completely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t fear much, but he does fear her, because she’s the only one he’ll allow to break him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, he sees a shift of red and soft rose in the corner of his eye, and Lauren slides down the cabinet in a parody of his earlier movements. They sit side by side now, and he can feel the way the water reaches for her too, tries to draw her into the same abyss it has named his home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them say anything. The silence is punctuated now—by their breathing, slowly crawling until they’re synced. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a while, that is them, the course they run. Lauren tilts her head back and rests it delicately on the cabinet, and Kieran closes his eyes against the current, willing his beating heart to still. It is simple, their tradition of nothing. They merely exist together and refrain from breaking the trust silence has placed in them both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing he says is:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll ruin your dress.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Is her reply. Her voice is raspy with sleep, and he feels a pang of regret for waking her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter.” She runs her fingers over her knees, soothing the wrinkles in what parts of the cloth are dry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a dozen nightdresses just like this in the exact same color—one being wet doesn’t set my life akilter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scoffs, and mutters a half hearted </span>
  <em>
    <span>“rich people,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> under his breath. It isn’t laced with his usual belligerent, teasing tone, and she notices.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, almost as though in a dream, she places her right hand down, submerged in the water, palm up. A question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been glad, for this establishment. He can’t quite place when it started, but somewhere along the line they found they could only manage the power of their hands. Like the day they seared a promise into it, like the day they took to each other and stripped themselves of love and affection; like the day they fell, they would still always pick at the chasm of life with their determined, bleeding fingers. And so their palms speak, questions they don’t want to voice, out of consideration for the silence, or out of a mere pride.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a while he doesn’t move, and she goes to retract it. But then she hears the soft shift of woven cloth, and a broad, calloused hand presses to hers in something called desperation. His hands were always warm; his palms were always deliciously broad, encasing hers like an eclipse. His rough edges and fingers slotted into hers like a puzzle piece. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her feet dance under the water, from where they are hiked up to the backs of her thighs. “Where did this come from?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He mumbles incoherently, closing his eyes again. She watches the perfect furrow of his brow, the way his hair tumbles loosely over his forehead, and she has the searing, sudden urge to push it back and lay her own against his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The tap.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” She nods. “It had been acting up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grimaces. “I’m—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finally turns to look at her, the command in her voice too impossible to ignore. Finally, blue and gold challenge each other, and finally they understand again that though it is a war, nobody wins between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...what—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say it.” She purses her lips, and he almost hates the way affection still burgeons like the stubborn ivy outside. He hates how much he loves, how much he feels, how human he is, sometimes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“I wasn’t going to.”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran. Lie to me again and I’ll really drown you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to retort, but closes it again when he sees the look on her face. It’s not desperate, or angry, or any other familiar emotion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just pleading. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a beat, she says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay, Kieran?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another beat. He almost longs for tap again, so he doesn’t have to hear the tune of his heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I’m not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren nods, lips contorted. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bites her lip. “For being honest. It’s okay not to be okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to drown me, darling—seems a boring way to go out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, and it sounds like Christmas bells and honeysuckle, and goddamn it, if he would want to drown in something, anything at all, it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that: </span>
  </em>
  <span>the euphoria he feels when she is happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to leave?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If it means you’ll sleep, then yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That wasn’t what I asked.” She turns to him, looks him in the eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want me to leave?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The new intonation has him pausing with his reply, and he thinks, he really thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. No, I never want you to, because you are the cacophonous noise in my silent life, because I couldn’t stand it if you really did—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. “Okay.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t quite smile, but something in it reaches her voice. He tries to convey his thanks, his gratitude, his disbelief, but all that comes out is another plea, hoarse and selfish, </span>
  <em>
    <span>selfish.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t leave me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then for another long while, they revel in quiet again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just—“ he starts, and then wavers, because really, how is he supposed to explain himself? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay too.” She whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their hands still interlocked, she gravitates toward him, and he finds himself laying his head on hers, her red hair spilling over his shoulder from where she’s nestled it into the crook of his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay to not know,” she says into his shirt. “It’s okay to not be okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would cry, if he could muster tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should heed your own advice, darling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs. “Don’t turn it on me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels a tiny chuckle rise in his throat, and maybe it’s a start. “You know I always will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs. “Fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t look up, simply furrows tighter into his bicep, murmurs into woven thread and the scent of poppies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to work on it.” She says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Deal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t help it; he smiles anyway, flashes a broad grin to the dark echo of his apartment, as though he’s daring it to challenge his happiness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Deal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hums, and he can see her lashes flutter like a struggling butterfly, aching to close. He shifts his shoulder, sighing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should go back to bed. I’m sorry I woke you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “I wasn’t sleeping anyhow.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she moves off of him, rising slowly. It’s always a marvel, how she moves with such surety and form. She kicks a foot in the water almost absently, watching as it unfolds in clear ribbons. Her gaze is drawn to where the water begins to leech towards the carpet, and she huffs in resignation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come. I’ll help you clean this up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, still unwilling to extricate himself from the water’s grasp. “It’s alright, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cœur—</span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s my mess, I’ll—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But to his surprise she merely shakes her head, offering him two hands, twiddling her fingers invitingly. He looks at her outstretched palms like she has just offered him something indescribable, not quite seeing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, with reluctance, he takes them in his. They’re small, and ever-so-slightly chilly, and real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels the honeycomb figments of light, created by the craters in the ivy over his window, on his skin as he stands. Lauren doesn’t let up on her hold, and she pulls him up, up, up, out of his misery and the numb, static feeling of absence and into something akin to clarity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stand like that, heads dipped and ankle deep in sink water, hands pressed tightly together. When he opens his eyes, he sees her, her own still closed and strands of red hair curling in lynx-like tranquility over the apples of her cheeks. The ivy boughs outside cast shadows on her too, but they read less like a cage and more like the leaves and small flowers that supplement it. She is the side of the plant that is good, the side of the moon that is illuminated by sunlight, the part of his life that is impossibly alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she lets up, and hands him a towel, eyes trained on his, he has to resist the biting urge to kiss her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They clean wordlessly, ebbing the water lapping at their ankles until it’s at its last, until the floorboards no longer squelch with spray. There is no music, or song, and the ivy still grows, but something about silence with her is different. Something about the vacuous space previously inhabited by screams and dark wash is now just another appendage of a home, of his home, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, once that’s done, she takes him by one hand, and he lets her pull him into his bedroom. He feels like even though he hasn’t set foot in the space for weeks, that part of it still reads as a sanctuary anyway, because she is with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After pushing him to change out of his sopping clothes, she tucks herself under the covers again, throwing him a baleful glare when he hesitates at the foot. He can tell she, too, is hesitant, by the way she grips the covers imperceptibly tighter; but she’s always been braver than him, and she’s all too willing to breach the chasm when she pats the side of the bed next to her gently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hadn’t dared to cross this kind of boundary before, regarding it as something sacred, not to be touched by two egregiously tainted people. But tonight, he supposed, is lax. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that selfishness, the one that wishes and wants—that belligerent thing wins out, and he crawls into bed beside her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They press themselves together tightly on a bed made for one person, but he wouldn’t have it any other way even if offered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Goodnight, mon bonheur.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He inhales at the breath at his sternum, barely audible. But it’s a noise, and he’s a perceptive man, and he was sure that even in a raucous crowd of people, he’d be able to pick out that sweet voice amongst the bedlam.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nestled into her hair, smells honey and smoke, and whispers back:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Goodnight, mon cœur.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The apartment is silent again, the only sound being the harmony of their breath; but Kieran doesn’t mind this time. He is the one to welcome the silence, because he is the master of his own home, because silence is his guest and that only, come for a night and gone when he wakes and realizes that everything will be alright.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No more noise.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HEYYYY AND WE’RE BACK EVERYONE!! HELLOOO!! ❤️❤️</p><p>I would like to thank everyone for being so unbelievably patient and kind to me as I got this out! As I predicted, school kicked my ass; but I’m back very briefly and in the mood to ✨hurt✨</p><p>An explanation of this chapter: vv briefly before Kieran’s imprisonment, the King gave them a period of about? A month to deliberate on his offer to them. During this time, Lauren moves into Kieran’s apt. This is the first time they share a bed :&gt; I had been lovingly dubbing this short, “the water scene,” so it’s nice that it has a name now :”)</p><p>This is also a very special moment. TLoF is the first of any ongoing fics I’ve done that hit 3000+ hits and 200+ kudos!! You guys seriously have no idea how much your reception and trust means to me! I’m genuinely so touched.</p><p>So! To celebrate: I’ll be doing a little QnA in the comments! Ask me anything! AND AND ANND! I wanna give something back to you all:</p><p>Tell me which TLoF chapter is your favorite so far! And in turn, I’ll tell you lovely people which work of YOURS I think is my favorite! I wanna give some love back to you, because you all are so very talented and sweet 💕</p><p>Much, much love from your Peachie. Thank you so much for your unending support &lt;3 kudos/comments are ivy boughs &lt;3</p><p>Insta: @artsofisha</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Azaleas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Azaleas: take care, temperance, gratitude</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Miss Taylor Swift just released a song called “ivy” which. Works so well it’s almost uncanny. I would entreat you to reread the last chapter with that on repeat, and then back to this one with “(Submarine)" by Smallpools</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lauren, throughout her life, would have confidently told anyone inquiring to the contrary that her uncle would always stay standing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d seen him dodge bullets with nothing but a flick of his wrist and a tilt of his sandy head; she’d seen him stare down wolves in the form of navy-clad politicians and sharks in the form of colleagues, and still keep a soft smile on his face, the smile that made even a most ardent dissenter concede to listen to Tristan Sinclair. He would never topple. The pillar that he built held him strong to its marble, and that fact had long been a comfort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, thrust into the present, into a hospital room with the oppressive scent of lemon floor cleaner and the sight of her uncle, frail and riddled with old age, she was beginning to wane on that statement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her elbows fly off her knees as her uncle coughs, the sound rattling through his lungs like a shaken bag of marbles. But he merely smiles that infuriating smile, waves a hand towards his niece with deceptive nonchalance, as though he isn't dying, as though he is still standing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, Ren,” he says, and his voice, ever soft, sends a lance of pain through her. “Don’t worry yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren huffs, leaning back in the chair beside his bed, letting her back slump. Her arms find their way around her sides, caging herself from the terse words that escape her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You say that like it’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>easiest </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing in the world—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ren—“</span>
  </em>
  <span> he begins again, his voice edging on admonishing, before another fit of coughing racks his body. It leaves him nearly doubled over, folded across the sterile titanium of hospital bed sheets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says, her voice stern, but laced with the appropriate fear, the anxious strain like a sour violin chord in the eerie din. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You get nowhere by being inordinately stubborn.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He managed a rueful laugh through his rasping breaths, shaking his head. She watches as his hair falls over his eyes, the strands matted and thinning with age and the bold mistress she knows as time, damaging and pursuing all at once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t throw my words back at me,” he says, his voice, despite everything, still much like a boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear nervously, hands finding their way back to her lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When the teacher starts to be taught by the student—well, you know it’s their time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her uncle looks at her, his eyes wide with surprise, before he throws back his head and laughs, a warm sound straight from his broad chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did I say that?” He snorts. “I sound so maudlin, huh? It’s the age, I’ll bet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren couldn’t bring herself to speak, words forming but never voicing themselves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It doesn’t mean you have to go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay. For another while, for another inevitable.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were times she’d visit which she could have almost called hopeful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunlight would stream through the only window in the room, coating the swamp green bed sheets with heat and fractals of shadow cast by the tree leaves outside. The space would feel almost cozy, and her uncle would be sitting upright when she’d enter. He’d turn his head, smile, palms laid over a book, spine crinkled, and she could think everything was fine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the Sinclairs were familiar with the trap that was inevitability. They knew things like that innately; that hiding never did anything but prolonged the lethal matter of hope. They were intimate with life, and life was a cruel thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On this day, his laughter, soiled by the hailstorm of sickness, of grainy sandpaper breaths and cold, dry hands, defeats the little piece of hope she’d ventured in with. His treacherous lips curve in a wry smile, as though everything wasn’t falling apart, straining at the seams she’d been trying to sew since she’d had to accept the truth of it; that he wouldn’t be around for much longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good one.” He says. “I see I’m being outwitted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About time, isn’t it?” Lauren retorts, shaking her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence fell over the two, the kind of silence punctuated by dreaded expectations—that vacuous space in one’s mind when faced with a dying man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What do you say, to make the spaces fit together, as though they weren’t fragmented by grief? What do you say to someone who knows they must leave, who won’t respond?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t have to say anything, fortunately—for the door to the hospital room opens to shatter the glass silence. A nurse, dressed in starchy white linens and pink knuckles teasing the grain of the door, enters. She looks between both of them with practiced sympathy, but her eyes land on the younger Sinclair in the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your husband is here, Lady Sinclair.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren sighs in understanding, already rising with the sounds of industry outside. She can hear the scrapes of cart wheels and the rustling of feet, shoes clicking as doctors and nurses alike make their way across stiff, powdery tile, as the scent of lentils and cornbread wash in cloying waves over her senses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Until next time, Uncle." Lauren said, brushing her hands down her legs, as if washing away the dismal set to her limbs with a simple sweep of her knuckles. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her uncle's expression on an otherwise impassive face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s come, has he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She freezes, fingers finding the collar of her coat. “Yes. You know that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glances to the azaleas at his bedside, thins her lips to hide the emotion in her face. When she turns back, she finds him in an odd state.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stares at a spot in the distance, his eyes pensive, something unnameable in them that gave her momentary pause. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren made her way to the door, her fingers skirting over an azalea petal on the side table. She remembered the morning just two weeks ago, when Kieran had arranged them carefully, trying not to cut himself on the scores of straw peeking out from the hastily woven basket. The flowers comported themselves in circles of yellow and amber, the scent of them subtle. Tristan had always looked amused when she brought in fresh ones--but underneath, she always thought there was some apprehension she felt she had no place making verbal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had just caught the doorknob when he spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful, implicative. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Lauren--wait."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned. "Yes? Is there anything you need?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shook his head vigorously. "No. No--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He paused. Lauren turned on her heel, her brows furrowed in confusion. Her uncle looked briefly down at his fingers, his palms laying flat on the sheets as they bunched at his frail waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, as if coming to a decision, he looked up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tell Kieran I'd like to see him."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren stopped dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What--?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her uncle laughed a little at the abject shock on her face. Perhaps it was a bit too palpable, disbelieving, for his face shifted into an expression which he’d only just begun to show recently; unease, reticence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Send him in,” he said, voice quiet. “They allow visitors until five, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It took Lauren a while to find her voice, but when she did manage to drag it up, she found it to be still breathless with suspicion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Until five, yes—but only immediate family—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He—“ he stopped. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Immediate family, no?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled up at her, and she was sure he’d gone mad, that illness had finally inched its way up to his brain and kissed him with mania.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are—“ she stopped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I’d—I’d like to finally speak to him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren looked at him for some time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Uncle.” She bowed her head. “I’ll get him to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simple as could be. It was anything but simple. She wanted to laugh, or perhaps rip something apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Ren,” she could hear him say faintly. She had an odd feeling, a strong one, as she shut the door behind her, fingers trailing across the plaque with her Uncle’s name on it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stood immobile, merely staring down the hall, where light from the outside world swathed the unnaturally pristine tile in imperfections, fluctuations.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, she began to sprint.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It probably wasn’t a good look: the niece of the former Chief of Police, racing down chilly tiles, coat flying about her thin frame as she rounded the corner, her focus tunneling. She ran and ran and ran until she reached the threshold of the hospital lobby, and it was there that she halted, heels skidding where carpet met hardwood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> She pinpointed, amongst the myriad figures in the lobby, the one with a surer, quieter stride than the rest, the one who struck soft cotton noises of upset on the checkerboard rug—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran!” She shouted, breathless, halting abruptly and heaving with exertion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His handsome face, bathed in light from the dawning, latent afternoon, registered alarm as he shuffled the azalea basket in his arms. Clad in a simple shirt and blazer, raven hair dancing about his forehead in pristine disarray, he looked horribly normal, like a perfect puzzle piece in a sea of white, jagged edges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey—!” He breathed, moving forward to meet her, eyes roving over her, no doubt checking for the thing that was forcing her so. His eyes widened as they met hers, honey upon ocean, communicating in a frantic wave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is everything—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” She reassured, still breathless. She leapt forward, her fingers clutching his arm, and he tilted his head to look at her as she opened her mouth—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He asked for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran started down at his wife in disbelief. She placed a hand underneath the basket, their fingers finding each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He—</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He asked me to send...for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran opened his mouth, then closed it lamely. He blinked, then slowly raised his head, looking past her towards the dimmer hallway she’d burst from.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is—“ he looked down at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look—“ she gripped his shoulder in what could be called a plea, something in her eyes shining molten gold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s not kick this—whatever it is—in the mouth.” She pronounced, her voice leaving no room for argument.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran eyed her apprehensively. “Are you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Just—“</span>
  </em>
  <span> she twisted around him, her palms finding purchase on his back and shoving him forward, basket leaking thin azalea petals like pink bullets. He glanced back, an eyebrow raised, as though seeking her final permission, her approval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go.” She nodded, with a small smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt winded. But all he could do was heed the command, the unspoken thing between them. The people in the lobby shot them glances, the odd, pretty couple, decked in a mosaic of evening sun and flower petals—but he found he couldn’t give them his time. He merely inclined his head, turning and starting down the hallway his wife had just come from.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran’s relationship with his uncle-in-law could only tentatively be put into words, for the fact of the matter was that it was virtually nonexistent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He understood the stance-- reconciling the myth, the horrific tale of the city's most lethal plague with the man who was now in a central position within the picture of his life would have been a tribulation for many.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Tristan Sinclair was of a disposition many would call strange.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so, when Kieran would be near—before their marriage, when he’d linger around the house--Tristan would be notably absent. When they’d see each other in public—in a crowd of blazing few, in a lecture hall on the science of criminals—he’d turn away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Kieran gave up, it seemed, so did he.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only contact they’d made, the assassin and the older, jaded policeman, was at his wedding, when, upon seeing his niece’s happy expression, the way she smiled, the way he did, too, he’d given him one small look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was one that Kieran had always assumed was nothing more than resignation: a subtle, acquiescing incline of his head before he once again averted his gaze. He’d been too caught up in the ivories of that day, of the scent of daisies and the joy of Lauren, to really care. He’d won a battle he hadn’t thought he would; he knew when to cease upon another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, staring at the closed door to his hospital room, he felt more apprehensive than ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That question returned: what </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>you say? To a man dying, dead, even. And not to mention, one who was predisposed to hate him, to hate the way he carried himself and the flowers he’d brought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He had never refused them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nervously shifted the basket into his other hand, weight distributed evenly, as though he were going to war. A click of his jaw, a determined set to his gaze, and before he could make peace with the action his knuckles were grazing the wood of the door in a steady heartbeat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come in.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The call is weak, nothing like the booming, stentorian chant in the square all those years ago, the soft desperation of the weeks that followed, or the soft, mellow voice he’d heard in casual passing. It is riddled with stretched illness, of time, age.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He obeys, toeing open the door and stepping in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody likes hospitals. They represent all that has gone rotten, all that is bleak and uncertain, and when Kieran crosses the threshold of Tristan’s room, he is hit with it. The smell of old flowers, the feeling of somber, reluctant abeyance. The light retreating to the corners of the room, as if shrinking from the dark spectre that had just entered the sanctum, the monster within. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn't say anything to his uncle in law's benefit. Tristan looked almost gaunt, and Kieran found himself feeling horrified and desolate to see him now, wrists folded together over a blanket encasing his figure, thin and bony.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up when the door ceased it's groaning, a curious twinkle in his soft eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Kieran," he said, and his voice was blank, belying nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran paused, his hands still on the doorknob, his other arm still cupping the azalea basket. His lips curved in a terse and unsure smile, brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hello, sir," he said, rather breathless, hesitant. "You...wanted to see me?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan nodded. "Yes--I'm sorry it's so sudden."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran shook his head. "No, sir, it's quite alright--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You can--" he gestured to the azaleas--"put those down, really."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh--" Kieran looked down at them, as though realizing he was still holding the things. He hesitated briefly before starting towards the planter, gently replacing the blossoms before setting the rotted ones by the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that—“ he gestured sheepishly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan nodded reassuringly, raising a hand to weakly wave it in his direction. “Perfect, son.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran tilted his head, inhaling sharply when Tristan gestured to the chair beside him, where Lauren had previously sat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take a seat.” He smiled wanly. “I promise I won’t bite.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran blinked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d have thought you’d be more worried I’d bite you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't kick this in the mouth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There—was there something you wanted to talk to me about, sir?” He asked, settling into the chair and training his eyes resolutely on the bedspread, powdery as snow and stiff like a canvas. What he wouldn’t give to put some color on it, spread some comforting golds and peachy creams over it like leaves; what he wouldn’t give to stop the treacherous way his eyes would dart to Tristan’s in embarrassment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Need I a reason to summon my nephew-in-law to my bedside?” He asked softly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran’s head shot up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I...no, I suppose not, sir—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>do stop calling me sir, would you?” Tristan waved a hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran paused. “Yes, sir—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tristan laughed. “I’m on my deathbed—oh, no need to shake your head so sympathetically, it’s true enough—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled ruefully at Kieran, his thick brows tented. His eyes were rather misty, as though he were lamenting for something long gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I’ve had a lifetime of people calling me ‘sir.’ It would be nice—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped, turning and assessing his companion’s state—of whose composure was born out of significant effort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Indulge me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, his fingers finding his coat sleeve in a nervous tic. He ran them under the lining of the fabric, knuckles skimming a jackrabbit pulse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What...would you rather have me call you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head back and stroking his chin. Kieran noted how bony his knuckles looked now, how sallow the tint of his skin was against the sandy dew of his linens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Call me ‘Tristan,’ I suppose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran suppressed the urge to leap up and head for the door. Instead—and which, admittedly, was no better—he grimaced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan merely smiled. From outside the large maple shifted just enough to allow a seam of light through the foliage, and he squinted to keep the crescent fractal of sun out of his eyes, briefly looking down at his lap. Kieran continued to stare, his lips unmoving, unwilling to form around the syllables he’d been entreated to pronounce.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, after what seemed like an age, in which Tristan only seemed to grow slightly more hunched, Kieran nodded, cleared his throat around a rusty baritone and crossed his arms in his seat, shifting uncomfortably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright…Tristan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The name felt foreign on his tongue, and his mouth turned slightly sour at the way Tristan smiled reluctantly at it, clearly noting his unease. He spread his fingers in a placating manner, appealing to him gently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can see it’s displeasing you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No! </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, I—“ Kieran waved his hands nervously, one coming up to card through his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just—“ he stopped. Looked up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Was</span>
  </em>
  <span> there a reason for this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan sighed, his eyes once again falling to his lap, where he fiddled with the fabric of his hospital dress, gaze set on the whorls of his fingertips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I wanted to speak to you." He said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves ever active. "Everything alright I hope? Did I...do something in particular?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan hummed, looking up at him consideringly. "No." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did I do something in particular? No, no. Just all of it, that would be a safer bet. My whole existence is his grievance, my career that of which is egregious to name in softer colors.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran nodded in space of something better to say. Silence once again descended upon the two, pregnant with awkward tension. He tried to focus on anything else; the way green thread at the fringe of the bed sheets frayed in verdant spools, the way light warmed his back with the love of a steady, undeserved palm. Anything to avoid having to speak, to look into Tristan's eyes. He feared that if he did, he'd end up saying something stupid, blurting out remonstrations to abate the guilt brewing in his stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You know--" Tristan began carefully, a sigh punctuating his words--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If...someone had told me, years ago, that I'd be sitting with the Purple Hyacinth on my deathbed, I'd have laughed."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran froze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Ah."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>was what this was about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry." Tristan said, and Kieran noted that he sounded sincere, in the least.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure it's not a topic you want to bring up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No," Kieran said icily. "I don't particularly like to talk about it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan bent his head. "I understand."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up again, and Kieran observed with a sharp jolt that his expression in that moment—soft and yet at the same time, filled with conviction—it reminded him startlingly of Lauren. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Whenever I heard one of the reports...and of course I heard a lot, I'm afraid," he grimaced sheepishly, "I'd always imagined someone…a lot older."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran chuckled without any real mirth. "Sure. I suppose they all did."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan winced. "Looking at you now--" he stopped, his voice all queer, almost disbelieving. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're...forgive me--barely a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can't imagine…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran's lips tightened, and he focused his attention on a dewdrop fleeing from an azalea petal. The bulb of water dropped from the thin strip, and he unglued his voice from his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If I told you it was okay, I'd be lying," Kieran said tersely. "But really, I don't need any sympathy--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's not sympathy I'm here for, Kieran," Tristan implored, his serene face now anxious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We're long past pity. I can't say anything adequate."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran nodded. "I understand."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan smiled. "When you go through life, you'll find that 'sorry' is oftentimes the worst thing to say--though it's the only thing that comes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran's lips thinned into an acknowledging smile. "Sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence fell again. What should he say? What could </span>
  <em>
    <span>either </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them say?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There wasn’t anything to be said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But somehow, Tristan Sinclair found it. He always did know what to say, always seemed to have golden words in his mouth like that of ichor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Has Lauren told you stories about her father?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even if they are wholly unexpected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran flounders, feeling as though he is a buoy cast helplessly out to sea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I--uh." He said inarticulately. Tristan tilted his head from its resting position on the pillow, keen eyes finding his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"She never talked much...when she was with me. But I don't know." He sighed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Time has gone by. And with you she seems--" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head ruefully again, and Kieran feels horrible, a mixture of embarrassment and strange woe making him speak out of turn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"She talks." He says. "It wasn't frequent but-- when she--sometimes she does."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rubs the back of his neck, reliving the events he didn't really want to exposit in front of his uncle-in-law: all the times she hadn't been able to sleep, and had nestled herself into his studio or in his arms to toil away the night at his side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly drowned?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He lifted his head from where he'd been studying a sketch of an orange segment, faintly startled. He found her staring at him from her position opposite the room, body curled like a cat. Her dainty feet were drawn up on a red cushion, her fingers playing with the ties of her nightgown. She wore a soft smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No." He said, voice still raspy with sleep. He tapped the end of his pencil on the table. "If you had I definitely would have remembered."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She tilted her head, eyes dancing about the worn ceiling. It had begun to yellow with the attentions time had given it, and she frowned at the jaundiced corners.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"It was in the woods—at the back of this house, actually."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He set down his pencil and settled back into his chair, listening to her mellow voice speak.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Dylan—ah." She floundered, her eyes suddenly wide, voice faltering with the weight of the past suddenly thrust into their present. She shot him a searching look, but he merely smiled encouragingly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"...He'd gone and chucked one of his father's horticultural journals into the river on accident." She sighed. "He was very panicked about it—crying that it had been expensive for his father, and it was his favorite—“ </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She suddenly looked very upset, and Kieran hummed a little to comfort her. Lauren softened appreciatively.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I offered to go in and get it."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She spread her fingers sheepishly. “I guess I thought balancing on an overhanging tree branch and trying to fish it out was a perfect idea.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kieran laughed animatedly. He could picture it: a younger Lauren, cheeks flushed with late autumn air and a plaid skirt dappled with sprigs of river water as she leaned, small knuckles gripping a swaying branch in desperation as her pink fingers clawed at the little book—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What happened?” He asked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She shrugged. “Fell in. The current took me pretty far.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Scary.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s inadequate, but she seems to understand. She nods slowly, her eyes focused on a point in the distance he can’t seem to reach. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So? How does the inimitable Lauren Sinclair get herself out of this one?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She threw him a glance, her mouth a half-moon. “I didn’t.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She looked down at her lap. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My uncle did.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kieran raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren nodded slowly. “Dy—he managed to yell loud enough that my parents heard from the back of the house.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She smiled. “My uncle must have gotten there first, though. I remember him lifting me out.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kieran leaned forward, elbows on his desk and fingers steepled as he looked thoughtfully at his wife. He knew embarrassingly little stories about her childhood, purely because she’d never offered like this. But somehow her tale painted a picture more vivid than something he ever could—he could see clearly in front of him, the stalwart and typically unaffected Tristan Sinclair clutching a young girl in his arms, willing the water out of her lungs, shaking her out on crisp and damp leaves while a powder-snow boy watched on in terror.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Uncle always—“ she’d began, her smile rueful and wide, despite the harrowing nature of the memory—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He was always there.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Only good things, I hope.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snapped back to find Tristan still staring up at the plaster ceiling, the little crevices where spiders had weaved their homes with filmy spools. He swallowed nervously, mouth suddenly dry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course—only good things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan smiled. “I was sad that I couldn’t bring myself to talk much about Alexander.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shifted, groaning a little as he sat upright. Kieran instinctively reached forward, but Tristan waved him off, heaving himself to a more comfortable position.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He was always—well.” He laughed. “Lauren gets most of her disposition from her mother. But—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up. “She’s got her father’s stubbornness.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran raised a brow. “I see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan shook his head ruefully. "I always remember that out of the two of us, Alexander was the one who would put up a fight. He wasn't--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped. "He wasn't so fiery, in any sense. His stubbornness--it was gentler."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When people reminisce, the moment when they lose themselves in memory is often distinctly palpable. Kieran sees that like a flame licking a match; Tristan’s eyes become glassy, his smile looser and unguarded. Kieran’s mind supplies the sepia image of two people, smiles wide and features all too familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So. That’s them?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not the first time he’s seen a photograph, but the actual first time had been the obituary newspaper clipping, and he feels he shouldn’t mention that. It wasn’t from her hand, so it doesn’t count anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She nods with no real conviction, her eyes fixed on the glossy picture within the gilded frame. Laurels and engravings trap a stolen moment in its hinges, a frozen snapshot of two adults. They’re young, though her mother has a pang of jade in her eyes. Even though the photo is monochrome, he imagines he can see the molten gold through the card. He imagines the flame of her father’s hair, the brusque ivory of the faded background.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This one’s old.” She says, setting it down. "Professional photographs always feel so artificial--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They’re in the attic, and Lauren’s got her knees folded underneath her, bending over a box caked in grey dust and the powder of age. He never had much to his name, but she has an excess, and he sits with her to sift through memorabilia and memories alike, watching the way she loses herself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Here—“ she turns around, handing him the subsequent picture. "This is better."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He tries to hide the jolt of surprise he feels behind a soft smile, taking the photograph from her fingers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two people sit by the riverside, and the woman has flung her arms around her husband’s shoulders so hard that he’s halfway out of his seat. Both are dressed in white, and this time the red and gold shine through. He sees his wife’s cheeks and brow on their faces, and her father’s surprise is a mirror of her own. They’re both smiling still, wide and joyfully, two people who are blissfully and hopelessly alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He smiles. “They look like you. And you have your mother’s eyes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She nods. “I’ve been told, yes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He can’t take his eyes off of them. He never felt photographs had much claim to capturing life—it was never his art to have. But something about it radiated vitality, the way it seemed to move in a mixture of appreciation and—startlingly—grief.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you for showing me,” he says.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Think nothing of it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I remember once we both wanted to go see the air show down in the southern airstrip.” He said. “We were like two thieves—I’d always have to tag along with whatever he was doing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>raining </span>
  </em>
  <span>like hell, and I really don’t know how it got into our heads that it’d work, but—“ he smiled—“once the seed was planted it wouldn’t stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran knew when to sit back and listen to a story. Tristan starts his indulgences the way Lauren does; like the crackle of lightning, like a page turned in a book. Like the final answer to a burning question written in the dance of the author’s eyes, as they reveal like lifting silks. So he takes his cue as though it were marked on a stage, and leans back in his chair, settles his eyes on a harbinger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I saw sense once he proposed sneaking out. But once Alex set his mind to something, he’d stop at </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds familiar.” He hears himself saying before he can clap a hand to his mouth. Tristan doesn’t seem to mind too terribly; he only laughs, nodding vigorously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’re all too familiar with it! Yes—he was a good kid, really. But he would go too far, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan shook his head. “It got to the point where I had to stop him from tying up half the closet, and just to grab the rope from the maid's cupboard. I’ll give him some credit--he managed to get halfway down before he inevitably broke something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere in a moment encapsulated in time there was a red-haired boy falling into a sea of poppies and azaleas flush to the exterior of the Sinclair mansion, his shirt and trousers plastered with red swatches as he tumbled down with a yelp into weeds and flowers alike. No doubt there had been some inquiries as to whether the scarlet on his shirt was his blood or the flowers.’ No doubt somewhere there was the man sitting in front of him now, decades younger and with wide eyes as clear as half-sweetened tea, staring down with a white knuckled grip at his brother, yelling for someone to help.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But the thing that stands out to me most wasn’t the fact that he’d been so stubborn that it’d cost him an ankle and two weeks of fencing lessons—not really.” Tristan said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was that--even after he got scolded to hell and back--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up pointedly, his eyes still affixed to some nebulous area of the past. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t stop. He hadn’t changed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan chuckled again, and Kieran managed a small smile. He could see it, now. The same viscosity, plasticity, of all stubborn fools who think they can forge a path with no thorns. It seemed that, unlike the occupants of the room--was timeless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What I’m trying to say--” Tristan grimaced. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m going about this badly--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran only tilted his head in slight disapproval, and Tristan waved his fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You--” he looked over at him curiously, studying him, eyes keen and blade-sharp.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--You remind me of him, somewhat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran, again, was utterly taken aback, a feeling which he vaguely felt should be tallied on a board somewhere. He could only open his mouth in a perfect ‘o,’ mutter incoherently through his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan smiled rather sadly. It was a nice smile--but all it seemed to hold was sentiment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not in most ways. But that kind of gentle stubbornness--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His gaze flitted to Kieran’s fingers, the way they were clasped over his knees in a pious show of grace. He wondered what he saw now; them closing around a black hilt, his knuckles coated in red paint? He almost appreciated that conclusion; it would make the interaction more black and white, so he wouldn’t have to deal in moral grey, anymore. Not with Tristan--not with his uncle-in-law.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What in the hell were you thinking, Alexander?!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tristan clung to the bell sleeve of his shirt, rubbed with grassy stains and dregs of petrichor. Alex winced as their father towered over them, brushing his thumb over a long gash over his cheek. Tristan had always found Father horribly intimidating, and he looked over at his older brother, he expected the same, withering look.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But Alex’s burnt-coal eyes were blazing, belligerent. He normally looked gentle, like the edge of a dull knife. Something in him now, in his disposition—Tristan was sure he’d win a war, one day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I wouldn’t do it again, Papa!” He said, voice strong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Good. See that you don’t.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alex relented, his face softening, lashes falling over his cheeks.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even when he apologized, he did not bend his back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed. “I suppose I’ve been unfair in thinking you and my niece weren’t alike in any sense.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran raised an eyebrow. “It...would be a logical conclusion, I’m not particularly affronted--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I understand that,” Tristan shook his head. “But--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glanced towards the azalea basket cushioned to the bedside. Kieran hoped they’d wither suddenly, dry up at the stems and fall to the floor in caramelized clusters. Then he’d have some sort of an excuse to leave the room, with its oppressive air of finality and impulse. It was a faint wish, an outlandish one; but wasn’t he such a person to dream?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying to say that--” He shook his head. “I have some catching up to do. On things to say to you, Kieran.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran frowned, but said nothing. He felt something akin to a storm approaching; though the branches outside continued to sway with the languid practice of an unassuming early autumn, and the light cast over Tristan’s old, weary face never dimmed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I--” he paused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran drew in a harsh breath. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel as if a lot of people owe you that--I most of all.” He smiled sadly, a flicker of wounded pride on his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And while I--” he looked askance--”</span>
  <em>
    <span>wholly </span>
  </em>
  <span>disagree with the way you and my niece </span>
  <em>
    <span>went about it--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran at least had the grace to abashed, wincing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--I can’t discredit the service you both did.” He said softly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really, I--” Kieran looked down at his feet. He saw the dull brown of his shoes contrast with the almost peach flush of the floor, and wondered if there was anything more harsh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I really don’t--” Kieran began, hesitating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think it warrants thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan raised a brow. “You don’t appear to like it--praise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran laughed, an insincere, sardonic bark straight from some hollow part of him. “I don’t think I do! It’s not like--I’m some </span>
  <em>
    <span>hero</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or someone to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laud--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>helped.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tristan pushed, leaning forward. “I think that should account for something--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me, sir, but--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My boy--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really,” Tristan began to laugh softly. His voice was a gentle rasp, and Kieran could imagine it like a trapped warmth in his chest, begging to be expressed like a moth to its cage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This was what I was saying--” He smiled. “You don’t give up, do you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran felt, again, like the ground had been swept from underneath him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was going on, here? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He imagined it was the azaleas--the scent of them, the smell of impending finality and the cordial, cloying saccharine of the petals. He imagined it was that so he wouldn’t have to face the fact that, even after all these years, he still was unused to acceptance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I simply--" Kieran grit his teeth. "I feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty,</span>
  </em>
  <span> trying to make out as though I'm a good person. I'm--we did it for horribly selfish reasons, you understand? It's not commendable in any sense--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped, suddenly realizing that the dam had been strained too far. He hazarded a glance to see Tristan grinning almost wildly, and he cottoned on to the game almost immediately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...You got me to talk." He observed, voice hedging and slow. He stared, at the man with newer eyes; half confrontationally, half appreciatively.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan only gave an enigmatic nod. “Better to fill the spaces with your words.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was true enough. That’s what could be said, in those vacuous, uncertain spaces. You let the younger speak, let them fill the silence with weak fledgling thoughts. When faced with death, you let life toil.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran, for the first time, smiled. It was only a hint, barely a waxing curve in the bright, broad evening sun. But it was there, and it seemed to please his companion to no end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He suddenly leaned forward, so sudden that Kieran started slightly with anxiety, a pang titling the smile at the corners.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran.” He stopped. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I owe you an apology.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran stared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We all do--I think.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran still said nothing. What could he say, what could he? It was like grasping at nothing, like trying to wade through raw, coarse honey and finding no foothold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“An </span>
  <em>
    <span>apology?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan nodded. “The law. It failed you miserably. It failed </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you, miserably.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he knew that he wasn’t just addressing him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Black. White. Grey. God, how he hated it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan looked up warily. “Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t accept it.” Kieran said, coldly. He didn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was being like this, so frosty and barbed like wire. But something in him rebelled so very thoroughly at the thought of accepting an apology he should be giving that he couldn’t contain it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t accept an apology from </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, Tristan.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He said passionately. Tristan frowned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t misunderstand me, son.” He said. He held up a stalwart palm, and Kieran had to quell himself from bristling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re the last person I should be saying this to. I’m not going to pretend, and I appreciate pretense as much as you do. But--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped. Somewhere, something snapped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to acknowledge that the Scythe was a product of negligence.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran felt something in him snap, too. Perhaps he was more put together than he thought, wove more webs within himself. He wondered when that had begun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan sighed, and the sigh was one of someone who had lived a very, very long time, seen many an ordeal and had stepped through each one with a new, stripped mettle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to pretend that Ardhalis hadn’t seen it coming for a while. To do that would do a disservice to the wants of the people—I won’t allow for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked at Kieran dead on, his eyes full of conviction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So I’m sorry. I owe it to you and Ren—at least that much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran still couldn’t say anything. He could only manage to shake his head in disbelief, vehemence straining his face in bitter contortion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t—“ he stopped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright.” Tristan hurried. “It’s—I understand I’m dumping a lot on you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t owe me anything.” He grits out, hands pressing crescents into his palms. “You’re the last person that is indebted to me—the </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>last—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why must debt be based on this kind of merit?” He asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran, after a time he took to genuinely consider it, shrugged helplessly. Tristan only cocked his head a little like an old spaniel, curious at the edges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You repent,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his gaze says. Somehow, even in silence, Tristan Sinclair can speak volumes. How does he manage it? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks down at his clasped hands, apparently trying to fish his voice out. Kieran is surprised to find his fingers trembling slightly. He doesn’t feel quite real; like he is a figment of himself, a narrative he’d begun to tell to reconcile his confusion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan speaks, breaking the silence with a glass hammer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran—the reason I asked for you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran frowned. “Yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan looked down at his fingers. They were worn, old, haggard things. Kieran had never thought there was anything frightening about age—it meant you had lived, had kept moving forward. But he recognized now, the hopeless fact that it was. That the only thing left after the pain of living was to leave for good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There are things I’ve been meaning to say to you that I never had the courage for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran smiles crookedly. “You? Not have courage, sir?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan laughed heartily, pausing briefly to cough into his elbow. Kieran nearly shot up in concern, but Tristan was accustomed to the hovering of his bedside watchers, and was ready with a hand to wave him off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Courage, I think, is a bad word. Perhaps I should frame it differently.” He thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was upset.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran nodded. It was entirely understandable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know how to--” He gestures to him with a flippant palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--to speak with you. Like I said--I never thought I would be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would it calm you to know that the feeling is mutual?” Kieran near whispered. Tristan smiled again, his face crinkling at the edges like rice paper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d avoided it for too long, I realized.” He sighed, turning to look at the azalea basket again. He reached up his fingers to twist a petal around the tips, lips slackened in thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wish I hadn’t—“ he stops, the foam of a dainty petal trapped in between his fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright—“ Kieran tries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” He shakes his head. “It isn’t. I have to make peace with some things--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to him. “I have to make peace with the fact that you are--a man. You are a man, and you’ve chosen your actions.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran feels a creep of anxiety slink up to his heart; but he feels something else, too. Something odd, something subliminal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Tristan laughed, stroking a grainy chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You...make my niece very happy.” He observed. No doubt he was recalling their wedding day, when his eyes had landed on Lauren’s arm around his, her smile directed at him, the way she’d touched the daisy he’d threaded into his lapel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran blushed. “I—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And—</span>
  </em>
  <span>“ He smiled, tilting his head in amusement—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>very happy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way he’d smiled in return; the way he would draw her close when he’d assumed nobody was looking, whisper in her ear and feel her warmth, her life, against his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran didn’t think his cheeks could possibly feel any hotter. He stuttered, his mouth forming about half-baked syllables.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tristan smiled. “You’re a man. No matter how much you try to deny it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran gaped. “I—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>one--although--” He looks pained. “I suppose I must rethink my definition of that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shook his head ruefully, carrying on as though every word didn’t strike Kieran like an odd, blunted barb. “Isn’t it funny? I’m still having to learn, even as I believe I don’t have to anymore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran can only nod, run a hand abstractly through his hair, to hide the way they shake as he lays his elbows on his knees, scuffs the floor with his heel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What I really wanted to say—if it makes up for all the things I didn’t—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down, then looked up again, eyes determined, soft, sad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he strikes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I forgive you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran froze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...what—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I forgive you, Kieran.” Tristan thinned his lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I forgive you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I forgive you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Kieran felt nothing at all. After a slurry of conflicting feelings, all he heard was nothing. He stared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And stared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And stared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound to break the shocked silence was, surprisingly, the sound of Tristan laughing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked up in confusion to see him chuckling, his eyes still trained on him with a sort of wry, sad amusement in his features.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran—my boy—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only after he’d extended a finger, only after Kieran reached up and touched his face and felt it stain with salt, did he realize.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with that realization, the dam burst.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He found that once the first sob arose, he couldn’t quite stop. The embarrassment of crying seemed to wash down with his tears, as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His breath came out in rasps as he sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. After a lifetime of waiting to do just this, he found he couldn’t quit, the bliss of losing himself in shards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so he leant into the storm that came. He leant into the torrent, the grey and black pulse of emotion. He allowed his head to fall between his legs, his hands to cover his face, the way his body racked itself with sparrow-like struggle. And he allowed the water to well, for the dam to creak and groan and for every pent up tidal wave to flood. He cried, and cried, and cried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And through it all, Tristan stayed quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was the kind of silence that was not uncomfortable, but welcome. A respectful step backward, a calm hand on a shoulder. It was the best and only thing he could offer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And through it all, the sun still shone, licked the azaleas with a fresco of light.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Kieran closed the door, it was nearly twilight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt his footsteps resound on the chalky tile, felt the heels of his shoes play the song of his presence as he walked the length of the corridor. For once, it was welcome; he was too used to hearing nothing at all, when he spoke, when he strode.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren was waiting for him in the lobby. He stepped off of the hard floor and into the threshold of stiff carpet the color of seaweed, and her head shut up from where it had lain in her palm almost immediately. Like a stone displaced in water, like a splatter of ink over a blank page.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled. Her figure, sketched out in abstract blocks of color, read like a crisp note of autumn. The scarlet of her loose hair, the sharp sepia of her long coat. The pale pink of her wrists and cheeks as she rushed forward, hooking an arm in the crook of his elbow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What—“ her face caught his, and he could see the exact moment she saw the blotches on his handsome face, the slack of his normally taut jaw, the red loops under his puffy eyes. Her own widened in alarm, and he wanted to laugh at how gold they were in the light.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran—!?” She breathed. “What happened? Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down at his wife, at the pink of her temples and the tilt of her eyebrows, and saw faded maroon, shades of ginger and bristling rivers, of two people in ink and charcoal, in mediums that cannot capture the life they had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I forgive you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Has anyone told you that before?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...not many. Save for Lauren. I don’t--expect it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I understand.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But he’d asked him to speak no more. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Kieran bid his farewell, reaching for the door as though it was the only salvation, Tristan stopped him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kieran.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He turned. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, sir?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tristan clicked his tongue, but Kieran felt it wise not to budge. After all; deep down, all he had claim to was stubbornness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then, Tristan sighed in defeat, one palm covering the stubble on his chin with the abeyance of a lion who cuts his losses.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell Ren I said goodbye.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kieran smiled, all teeth this time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I will.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright, darling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can see the gears working in her head, but he only tugs her along, delighted to hear the sharper footfalls now falling into place with his. She presses herself to his side, nudges him with an accusatory elbow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Kieran—?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She scoffs in exasperation when she sees him laugh, bringing up a hand to rub at an eye. He can detect the faintest scent of azaleas on his fingertips, sweet and muted. He looks down at her as they reach the door, bracing themselves for the cool autumn air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should have known better, to posit that you weren’t similar in any sense.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Everything’s perfect.” He affirms, smiling so, very wide, all gold ichor and white teeth. She stares, and her lips part in realization.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles too, and he is happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even now, his back does not bend.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WELL. Really hopping on the ‘Kieran Cry Tristan Die’ agenda huh—</p><p>Hey guys ❤️</p><p>I’d never explicitly stated that Tristan was dead in AAoCaA, but I’d always...secretly headcanoned it like that. If you wanna believe that he gets better after this and lives for another 40 years that’s perfectly acceptable. I just—DAMN Lauren needs one alive, acceptable relative huh</p><p>Also...4000+ hits??? EXCUSE ME?? GUYS? I am so so honored. I really do not deserve all the kindness y’all have given me this year. The fact that people enjoy my work...it’s insane. Thank you ❤️❤️</p><p>With that being said—again, please take careful note of the chapter count &gt;:) that’s right!! We’ve got 5 chapters to go, everyone!! I am unbelievably excited for them—it’s all the stuff I’ve had in my head since MAY that I will finally get to write!! Buckle up, guys ❤️I’m gonna love having you on this ride</p><p>As always kudos/comments are Azaleas &lt;3 much love</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Marigolds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Marigolds: pain, grief</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>There is something rattling about a gravestone carved with a familiar name.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Names, in truth, are mercurial things. </span>
  <span>Write them down and they seem almost inhuman, even though they inhabit the body of an individual with a personality, with a disposition, with life in their eyes like the burning embers of a charcoal diagram. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Say them aloud, and they hold sacred vitality. Have one for your own, and watch it become your unconscious truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Josephine was a beautiful name, Will always thought. When he was younger, and first learned that his mother had another endearment before ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>maman,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was fascinated with it. He’d climb into bed sometimes, hide his tiny frame against his mother’s waist, and whisper the syllables into the cusp of his fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Josephine?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His mother laughed, warmth spreading through the robin’s egg covers and into his bones. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My! You sound just like a grown-up, calling me by my name.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will pouted as his mother ruffled his hair. He could smell the comfort of her perfume, the balsam she lit in his bedroom to help him drift off to sleep. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Aren’t I a grown-up yet?” He asked petulantly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His mother chuckled, and he could feel her shaking her head as she drew back from him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No!” She whined. “You will be someday—but you have to stay my little Will for now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will looked up, and she was smiling down at him with that angelic curve she only reserved for her children. He felt, then, that there was nobody in the world more warm than her; nobody else could calm him with a single breath and whisper, nobody else had hair like early springtime straw, eyes exactly like his. Nobody else could carry ‘Josephine’ with such grace.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When, bereaved of articulate words, he’d merely nestled himself tightly to her side, he’d barely heard her sigh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And you’ll always call me Maman.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d done a bad job of carving the ‘h.’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will knelt without a sound in the patch of damp grass beneath where his mother lay, hair obscuring his face as the treacherous wind lapped at it. If he breathed, spoke, or shivered, he feared he’d break the solitude forever. So he wordlessly set down the basket of flowers he’d toted all the way to the graveyard, and tried not to brush his fingers over the glaring letters as he stood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The burning yellow of the marigolds stood out in an almost harsh blaze against the muted grey of marble, the swirling cobalts of the muddy sky and the dull tint of the grass beneath his feet. Spring was almost upon them, and with it the swarms of lilies and life stirring within the core of the city; but first Will had to make it out of the thrush of the hurricane: the frost that coated his mother’s resting place like glaze, determined to keep her there until everything around her withered to ash.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He dug his fingers into the pockets of his black tweed coat, and tried to find words to say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He began, barely a resounding note in the cool morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All that stared back at him was semi-circle stone, the letters of his mother’s full name etched into it, the 'h' all wonky as it was. He’d paid everything he could manage—which was a considerable sum, minding what his father left him—to get a good headstone for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembered thinking that all of the swatches they’d shown him—white, cream, every shade of grey imaginable (and some he hadn’t known existed), even that dusky pink they’d tried at the end—seemed nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>offensive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he thought of his mother. She deserved so much better, something akin to the world--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And you’ll always call me Maman, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I didn’t come last week.” He whispered. “Work got hectic—and I couldn’t pick these in time—“ he glanced towards the basket sitting idly at her feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stubborn things.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wind took his words and snuffed them out like a candle between its rough fingers. Whether they’d ever reach her, he’d have to see her to find out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was always talking, before her illness. Language filled her mouth in fountain blooms, like she found no greater pleasure in talking; and whoever was in the vicinity couldn’t help but listen. He remembered the evening teas she used to host; the reverberating sounds of her laughter echoing over ostentatious marble walls.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And your little boys?” A woman in violet velvet asked, muffled by a palm over her mouth to keep the cake crumbs in. Will couldn’t recognize her voice; it had a soprano quality, like scratching painted glass. But most of the women who came did. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He could, however, recognize his mother’s voice when she responded.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh! Rafael’s begun school already,” she said, and Will could hear the wide, beaming smile on her lips. She would always begin with Rafael first.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Simply successive ages, she’d say. Rafael was older, so he’d come first.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Has he? Is he any good—?“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No doubt about it!” She said. “He’s Stefan’s son as much as he is mine, after all—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The women cooed in a chorus, a fleet of parrots to some interesting bauble. Will tucked himself further into the alcove he’d ensconced himself in, trying to blend in with the shadows that licked the space. His body was still small--but his pale coloring, the shock of straw-colored hair that now grew in stiff tangles about his tiny head, would give him away as an angel hiding in the shadows of starlight despite his best efforts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And...your youngest? What was his name—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Will!” His mother gasped. “My William—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His name always sounded sacred whenever she said it. Lots of little boys were named William—he’d met some, even. But his mother always made it seem wholly special—like it was his and his alone to have.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He still stays at home with me—Rafael and I have begun to teach him the piano.” She said, her voice taking on a dreamlike quality.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A musician! I see!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The woman sounded like she did not see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s absolutely wonderful,” his mother gushed. “He’s got </span>
  </em>
  <span>such </span>
  <em>
    <span>an ear for these things, it’s like he was born just to play.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will felt euphoric. The whole wide world had chosen him to be this thing, to do this one thing, and who was he to ignore that--?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My little prodigy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will was light as a bird, and he couldn’t help the idiotic, toothy grin that spread onto his cheeks. If his little plinking notes were enough to inspire this, he’d better get working. He’ll sit in front of that brass gilded piano and pour everything into his fingers—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“William.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He jumped, as he always did at the sound of his father’s voice. He looked up to see the looming crescent of his father’s figure over him, casting the pillars in real shadow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you doing, hiding like this? Eavesdropping on your mother—you make yourself out to be a hoodlum.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will tried desperately to unglue his voice from his throat, but if he protested, the others would hear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His father snuck a glance into the tearoom, then lowered his voice.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go to your room right now, and I’ll let it go.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will looked up in surprise; his father’s face was as impassive as ever. But when he pushed off the wall and began to run towards his room as directed, he thought he saw light catch in his eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When his mother came to kiss him that night, he almost asked her to say it again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My little prodigy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My William.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling today?” He tried.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody answered. Nevertheless, he continued. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The weather’s been dismal, but me and Kym are getting by. I can’t help but remember how you used to get colds around this time—I almost made some lemon tea the other day, but I—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped. He remembered pouring the ginseng and the single dollop of honey she’d always liked, stirring the mixture until it congealed in a single, matte pool, and had just been about to take it upstairs, towel and all so she wouldn’t spill it, her fingers shaky as they were--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then Kym had come in, looked down at the little cup in his hands. Her face had crumbled, and Will realized with a jolt that neither of them liked lemon tea. Neither of them would drink it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Later he does remember that the cup had been picked up again, and he’d watched the ring of the cup drip with watery broth as Kym had lifted it to her lips and downed the whole thing. When he looked at her in awe, she merely wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and smiled wanly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s good. You make it well.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And he’d wanted nothing more than to be undamaged, then. If it weren’t for the fact that his grief was possibly irreparable, he would have focused on her, the way she took even the meager crumbs he managed to give her and fulfilled them, completed him. He loved her, he loved her so. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone he loved left him, didn’t they? It was the way of the world for lemon tea cups to lay stale, for names to fade into obscurity. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What was the use of love, to a boy with a never ending sonata of grief in his veins?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ‘h’ was really bothering him, now. Even as he tried to talk, the way it looped in a gesture of possible violence really undid him. It wasn’t right--his mother didn’t deserve that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry--” his voice quavered. “I--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped. His mother never liked it when he would apologize excessively. She’d always look at him with sorrow, as though she was the one who had something to be regretful about. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Really, Maman, I’m--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t have to apologize so much, my son,” she said, bending down with enormous difficulty to help him pick up the blue china fragments from the floor. Curse himself, for running directly into the table, destroying his father’s favorite vase--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But Father’s going to be so upset!” He wailed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’ll be more upset if you cut your fingers and end up bleeding out all over the place--” she said, grabbing his hand before he could lacerate himself. Will had the fleeting thought that his father would probably be more displeased with blood staining the carpet rather than his son being the one who owned the blood, but thought it wise not to say anything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She smiled at his worried brow, smoothing the tiny wrinkles that had creased with a gentle thumb. She then held up a shard, twisting it in a subtle way so wisps of glaze caught the light streaming in through the windows. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Suddenly she winced, bringing up a hand to her forehead. Will yelped in alarm. She’d been doing that a lot more lately; he wondered if that was the reason the women had stopped coming so frequently, and if they did they would speak in muddied, worrisome tones.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman?! Did you--?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, no, Will.” She smiled thinly, fingers still pressed against her temples. “It’s alright. It’ll pass.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He frowned, trying to ignore the way her face contorted. Pausing, she looked back to him and held up the porcelain piece in her hand. Her smile was back--the one that rouged her lips with the finest paint and made her look young again. He couldn’t help but smile back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nothing a little glue won’t fix. Papa will never know,” she winked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Father did find out, and Will could hear the siren of his shouting echo across the walls. But his mother had smiled, and he had smiled too, and he clung to that as tightly as he would a shard of the vase; deep enough to splinter, to cauterize.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s funny— every time I’m here I only seem to apologize.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s really not funny. He doesn’t laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try something else, for a change, then.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling fog graze his knuckles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What would you like to hear about? I’ll let you decide. I could tell you a multitude of things—how work’s been, how Kym’s been trying to grow some herbs in the back next to the marigolds—it’s not working, she’s frightfully awful—but it’s nice watching her try. Her thumbs are </span>
  <em>
    <span>black, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I swear.“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody answered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d always suspected, somewhere in the very back of his mind, that Rafael’s departure was the starting point.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The headaches had been getting progressively worse, and more frequent, up until that point. But he’d always had an inkling that the sun-ridden day when his brother’s presence faded from the halls is what finally pushed her body over the edge.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He finds her curled up next to the coffee table, legs tucked like that of a swan and head buried in her arms. There’s a small whistle in her fingers, and Will suddenly remembers it as the one Rafael had once used to call in the great, slobbering Danes his aunt had owned when they were children.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He hesitates in the doorway, as though his mother were an unruly animal to be cautious with. But she made no noise; if she was crying, it was so forceful as to be quiet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman.” He whispered.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody answered.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman,” he tried again, slipping closer, stepping over overturned tables and the lip of a broken plate. His mother had upended everything desperately, looking for something other than the letter still crushed like taffeta between her fingers. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She still did not respond.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman—“ he breathes, kneeling next to her on the floor. She still does not respond to him, her son. He can barely even see her back heave with breath.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We’ll try,” he says. “We’ll try. We’ll make do, we’ll find him. Rafael was never a good hider—he can’t go far.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She doesn’t answer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman. Maman.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He touches her body, and it is cold, like snow on his fingertips as a child.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When the screaming ceases, and she’s tucked under the finest goose down the world can muster, Will finally breathes again. Him and his father stand over her sleeping body, watching as another light flickers and smarts with reluctance.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The only remnants of the Hawkes family stand and crash in a crescendo, and right at the fermata of baited breath, Will can almost catch disapproval in his father’s waiting face.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I realized, a while back. That I never really could manage to ask about your day, when you were here.” Will smiled, lines pulling at his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was always at work--and you--well, I’d always assumed you hadn’t done much.” He steps closer, shoes causing the water clasped in the grass to hiss with disapproval. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess that’s wrong of me.” He says. “You probably did lots of things to keep yourself occupied that would have made interesting stories—I’d hear the maids saying you asked them to bring in some needles so you could make a cozy for your tea. And you were always a dreadful knitter, I remember those socks you made--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were yellow and wooly, and running ragged from all the times she’d dropped a stitch. But he’d tried to wear them. And when they wouldn’t fit anymore, he’d requested a hat, which had lain unfinished amongst the things they’d gotten after the funeral.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I’d have really liked to hear what you got up to. Did--did the maids ever bring in the piano, like you wanted?” He stammered, fiddling with his collar cuffs. His father would tell him to stand up straight, right like a rod, and speak properly, not to mumble--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bring in the piano, Will. Play something for me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can’t, Maman—it’s night, it’ll make too much noise.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then—“ she frowned. Her face was pained, as though it now hurt to have emotion, to have independence, too. She reached out for him on the bed, bony fingers finding his.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Carry me there. We’ll find a way, Ra—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She stopped, face stricken. “Sorry, sorry, Will, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But he was forgiving of the slip. No matter how much it snapped like a broken guitar string in his chest, splashed like cold water in his face, he’d do whatever it took if she’d keep smiling like that, hoping, daring, dreaming. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He brought her fingers, still delicate and butterfly-like, up to his lips, then shifted until his stronger arms encased her. She felt too light, like a paper lantern snared in starlight. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once at the piano, she seemed healthier, more alive. Will dared to hope some silly, boyish dream; that if she stayed here, her skin would glow gold once more, and she could sing to him, accompany his gliding notes, call him her little Will again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Rafael, play the sonnet.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He stops.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Successive age, she always said. Successive age, is all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“ she cries, her fingers barely-there flutters on the ivory keys.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But he touches her wrist, plays a single C, the note of harmony. All is well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t say sorry. You don’t have to apologize to me, remember?” He says, smiling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She doesn't smile back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I really do wish I’d gotten to play more with you.” He whispered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rafael was always better...of course--” he stopped, his throat tightening on instinct when he said his brother’s name. He’d long been a corporeal thing in Will’s life, like a golden straw phantom he’d will away from his bedside. Saying his name felt at once like banishing him and summoning him to his side, both outcomes unfavorable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--but I liked the way you played.” He tilted his head as he grinned, all teeth like he would when her eyes would lose focus. “I’ve never met anyone who played like you before, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maman.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was true; people often fell into categories of involvement with the keys: reckless enthusiasm, absorption bordering on manic manipulation. But his mother would play with a kind of reverence reserved for a deity; as though the soldier-like rows of ivory and black were gentle silk. Her fingers would glide across in bird-like delicacy, and as he would study her face, it always looked gloriously happy. When they would all play together, his mother was the glue keeping them in time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hope you felt proud. You know--of your skill.” He manages.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dead cold of the waning winter begins to set in, just then. He hadn’t before registered how </span>
  <em>
    <span>desolate </span>
  </em>
  <span>it felt, crimped frost beneath his feet and grass the color of dull pine. Will’s eyes scanned the headstones, the grey slabs his only company across the expanse. He was a solitary figure, the only thing with life still coursing through his cursed veins, and what kind of curse was it that he was here and not his mother? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d hope--well, it was something to be proud of. I don’t know if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>made you proud, in that sense, but--” he looked down at his feet, where moisture began to collect at the tips of his leather shoes. He could feel strands of his hair obscure his vision, and his nose and ears turn a dusky pink, but he found he couldn’t care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I--</span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>I made you proud? Kym always says I’m silly for thinking that but I’m afraid I must hear an answer, really--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But of course, as has been the enduring symphony for the full, long year she’s been gone, nobody answers him. He speaks to a void uncaring of what he does with himself, a void which yearns only for hollow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kym does always seem to be right about these things….” he trails off, at the thought of her. He hadn't seen his wife off before he left; she’d already taken her coat to the office and left him a little note, scribbled with her hand like chicken scratch. Something about how familiar, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm </span>
  </em>
  <span>it felt to have something the slightest bit imperfect in his life calmed him down.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled, true for the first time since arriving at the yard, fingers instinctively finding the band around his finger. He twisted it, remembering vividly the day it had found itself wrapped there, a permanent branding he would never wish to take off. Kym had nearly dropped it on their wedding day, and it had almost gotten lost in a sea of guests, glinting like a star. But he’d never laughed harder at her red face, and had never felt more euphoric than the sight of it becoming more and more flushed as he’d pressed his lips to hers, to sweeten all the promises he’d give her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d have </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved </span>
  </em>
  <span>her, Maman—really.” He gushed. “I swear. She isn’t--noble born or anything, and Father had his gripes about that, of course.” He says, voice like bitter liquor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you ingrate--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s my decision!” He screamed. He never knew his voice could reach this point, but he supposed he was, for the first time in his life, inspired by his father. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I will live the life I want to lead!” He cried, thrusting a fist to his chest. His father looked murderously on as he about-faced, stared at the cream colored walls and the garish imprints of crimson decor lacing every inch of his godforsaken family home--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You little--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not your decision to make, anymore--Father.” He said calmly, voice resorting to a sotto lull. “It was never something of yours to have.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was true. For as he walked out of the home that had nothing for him anymore, he knew only two things in his heart:</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That he would marry who he wanted, the spry woman with oceans in her hair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that he’d never call his father ‘Papa.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But she’s—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She didn’t have a single musical bone in her body, but if Will said he needed a partner, someone to simply sit and touch the keys as he tried something new; she’d do it happily. And if she was simply content to hang onto him, settled herself by his side and twine her arms around his neck as he played his heart out for the one person he would never stop for? He’d indulge her. He’d never stop indulging her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh—</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, you should have been there.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He whispers. He doesn’t know why his breath feels so quiet, which ghost he’s trying to tell this to. There’s a thousand of them in the graveyard, but none of them have blemished headstones, diseases in their head and failures for sons. None of them had a need to listen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>should have,” he says, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is it rasping? It sounds like stone on cold lime, it sounds as though he hadn’t gotten himself out of bed in decades. He reaches up to his throat, like he’d like to reach in and wrestle it out of him, whatever weakness he still holds onto.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Maman.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he whispers, but maybe it’s because he’s too quiet, because he doesn’t wish to shout and wake her up and have to face her again, maybe because she’s gone and he still hasn’t fully accepted that, but nobody answers him. He shouts into a void, and that void recognizes that he doesn’t deserve an echo back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He just stares at her headstone, at how it is first dull, then shines with dewdrops. The lettering fills with pebbles of water, dripping down the solemn etching that spells </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jospehine </span>
  </em>
  <span>into the brittle rock. The marigolds quiver at her feet, yellow petals catching rain into their outstretched hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is it raining? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is. He holds his head high to the sky and it pelts onto his face in unyielding spurts. It screams, it shouts, and yet none of the voices that fall with the rain are the one he so desperately wishes to hear, the one like an angel, with colors like warm wheat fields. The one who would say his name with an innate possession, one who would say his name like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My little William. My, my, mine-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t feel the rain, anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know quite how long he stands there, but he can begin to feel his coat soak through, his hair sticking to his forehead in a sheet of molten gold. He can feel his shoes bleed rainwater as he stays stationary, eyes unfocused and glassy, like the shards of a plate--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly he hears the sound of rain on tarp, and no more pressure hits his face. He instinctively starts, looking up to find the filmy surface of an umbrella hovering over him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to look down to find the source. When he sees Kym, coat of fleecy white all the way up to her collar and worried, honey eyes staring straight up at him, the part of him inside that still desperately </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> comfort calms itself. It would embarrass him if he could still feel his heart inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym said nothing at first, merely stood higher on her heels to make sure the umbrella reached his full height. She was always complaining about their height difference, but he’d always secretly found it endearing, how her head only reached his sternum. It made it all the more easier for her to lay it in the crook of his neck, slot into him like a puzzle piece. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was then that he looked down and noticed the basket of marigolds she was holding. Hers were a bit tattered; the stems looked as though they’d been taken to by a ferocious bear, and water sloshed out of it as she tried to regain her balance. But the yellow things winked up at him like bright stars in the midst of foggy blue-grey plains, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth, to say something untoward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym looked from him, keen eyes finding his in a smart of electricity, then down at the headstone, where an identical basket lay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” she said. “Damn--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked down at her own basket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I--god, I should’ve assumed--</span>
  <em>
    <span>shoot.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She sighed. “A waste! I could’ve saved these for another visit--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s…” he began, and she looked up as though the sound of his voice shocked her. Truthfully it always did; it always felt like something sacred she didn’t deserve to listen to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” He said quietly, almost absently. He still couldn’t quite believe she was here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym looked at him curiously, as though she were studying him. The edges of her coat were beginning to dampen as she focused the umbrella on his head, and he, without even thinking, took the handle from her fingers. His hand closed over her tiny one, and he felt warm life breathing through her. No doubt she’d gone back to pick them up, hastening straight from the office--for ink still crawled up her hand and to her perfect nails, leeching like a crime on her milk-white skin. It made him yearn to smile, a real one with pink lips and without soaking composure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She flushed slightly when their hands brushed, and Will found it amusing. Even after a year of learning what it was like to love each other so thoroughly and she still acted as though it was the first time she’d laid eyes on him and spilled black coffee down his broad front. But she quickly relinquished her hold on the umbrella, allowing him to hold it high over both their heads.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on just one second--” she held up a finger, grinning madly, the precursor to a particularly wild scheme if he knew her well enough--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And before he could blink she’d darted out, yelping as rain hit her shoulders. She ran the short few feet to the headstone and placed the basket of marigolds by its feet, snuggling it next to the one Will had placed there--was it an hour ago? He really couldn’t tell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kym!” He shouted, holding out the umbrella and trying to situate her under it. She merely laughed as rain dripped down the ends of her hair, retreating under the cover of the tarp and nudging his shoulder. He felt a wild instinct surge through him and tugged his arm around her, bringing her sopping body flush with his. He immediately regretted holding her close to his own wet coat, but she complained when he made to turn away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine!” She shouted over the rain. It was coming down in droves now, petrichor kissing the air with its grief as she yelled to be heard over the noise. “We’re both wet, now! Not like it matters!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down wordlessly as she tilted her figure, head resting against the tie on his chest. She was still warm like hot coals despite being soaked, and he selfishly tried to steal some of it, feeling it whimper into his frosty lungs and whisper sweet nothings to the roots of his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re warm…” he muttered, not knowing quite what else to say. She only hummed and wrapped her arms around him, minding that one of his was still holding the umbrella high above their heads. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rain caught on the tarp and fell about them in a sheer curtain. Neither of them looked at each other. Their eyes were trained on the headstone, never leaving the strong lettering that spelled out </span>
  <em>
    <span>Josephine Hawkes, beloved mother.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a while, Kym spoke, a note of reluctance in her voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They messed up the ‘h’.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How much did you pay again?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t really matter. It was my father’s money.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym smiled. “Then fine. I’ll let it go.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt her fingers curl into the ribs of his sweater, finding his heart underneath the thick layers of his coat. Shifting his weight so the umbrella could stay suspended, his own chilled hands covered hers, until they were a tornado of temperature shivering underneath a tarp together, rain belting its song onto the shield above them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m--” he sighed. “I’m sorry. For leaving without saying anything this morning.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” She said. “You know? I’m going to accept that apology.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down at her. She spoke in a rush.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You never </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You always try to shoulder everything and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will, it really does--” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She wasn’t sure if her respect for Will grew or decayed as she registered that he hadn’t shed a single tear at his mother’s funeral.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’d expected him to cry when he’d gotten the letter, blue ink stating in very calm calligraphy that it had finally been too much for his mother. Sleep had taken her in the night, cool frost burnishing her eyes as she’d closed them for one final time. She’d expected him to cry when he’d gone to his house, when she’d helped him sort through her things. She’d felt her fingers drip through clothes, little pearl necklaces and cases filled with fine books, but her eyes had followed him as he mindlessly waded through, arms twisting like automatons, movements just as mechanical.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’d expected him to cry when they’d gone to the funeral home, when he’d first laid eyes on the hallways decked with canary yellow marigolds, his mother’s favorite. He’d merely looked on, solid, stoic, her arm looped through his. She’d expected--no, almost hoped--that he’d cry during the speech he was forced to write. She watched his perfect face for signs of water, for a spark in his blue eyes to catch the lights glinting off the domed ceiling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But it was rigid as stone. The sharp angles of his jaw moved with his words, but Kym couldn’t hear any sound come out that she wanted. She wanted him to </span>
  </em>
  <span>sob, </span>
  <em>
    <span>to show some sort of human emotion. Not for show, or theatrics--but because he deserved to, he deserved the world within his fingertips, he deserved to show himself bare.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It happened at home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kym was sitting at the kitchen table, the metals and woods of the surfaces suddenly horribly stale. It didn’t feel like anyone’s home, anymore, and the world was too quiet to speak, a silence both too fragile and too bulletproof to break. Will hadn’t said a word since the eulogy, merely hanging their coats up on the hanger and solemnly retreating to the sink to wash dishes. She wasn’t even sure where he’d procured those dishes, but she let him. She’d allow him anything he’d like, if only he’d make some face other than blank, stagnant disbelief. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It wasn’t until she heard a plate shattering, the sound of china crashing into splinters that she was up and running, catching Will in her arms as he collapsed to the floor, mouth open in agony. He was crying so hard that the tears wouldn’t flow, was hurting so hard no sound came out. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, chest heaving, and she was ashamed to feel relief amongst the sheer panic bubbling in her veins. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally, finally the pillar he’d built from ice had melted, and it left only Will, nothing more than a boy crying for his mother.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’d learned later, when she looked out at the cracked shards of the plate, one with little glazed bluebirds flying around the rim in a perfect arc, that it had been his mother’s favorite plate.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I broke it--” he gasped. “I shouldn’t--I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>so--</span>
  <em>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey--” Kym soothed, tangling her fingers through his unkempt and unwashed hair, trying to abate the tremors. “It’s not your fault, Will. it’s not.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It hadn’t been. If anything, it’d felt like hers, for intruding on a grief that wasn’t hers to have.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know that.” He said solemnly, eyes still not meeting hers. He was looking out to some distant horizon she couldn’t hope to touch, mouth pressed to a thin line. Rain continued to fall around them, soaking the marigold petals until they turned a rich, butternut color. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, next time.” She whispered. The fabric of his sweater caught on the calluses of her fingertips, and she rubbed comforting circles into his back. He hummed, eyes falling shut and white lashes dusting his cheeks. Even soaking, grieving, he was dreadfully beautiful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She remembers the first time he’d laughed, after that day. She’d started to think she should seriously learn, how to play the piano. He always seemed so lonely at the keys, back bent and wisps of hair fretful about his neck. She wanted to see what she could do, if something would help abate the grief.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She got three notes in before she realized the sheet music looked like German to her, and she wasn’t sure where to put her hands. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you doing?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She turned her head over her shoulder, and Will was leaning against the doorframe, a sandy eyebrow quirked. He didn’t look angry--he almost never truly did--but she felt a little worried nonetheless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I--” she looked down. “I’m learning.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He inhaled. “Are you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She nodded. “I want--I wanted to accompany you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She could hear the breath of his bare feet on their carpet, and when he was right behind her, holding onto her shoulders with a gentle sway, she could ignore the mounting anxiety in her, that he wouldn’t like it, that it wasn’t something she could do--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you--can you?” His voice was indecipherable. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She considered his halting question. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then, she startled them both by bringing both of her hands down onto the piano firmly, a discordant harmony that sounded like a door slam beating into the dim silence. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not really!” She proclaimed. “Sorry, Will.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When she turned to look, she was shocked to find his face scrunched up, and for a moment she was terrified that he’d start crying--</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But then his voice had sounded, and it was a beautiful bell of a laugh. He laughed and laughed and suddenly she was laughing too. It felt infectious, his happiness--the only welcome disease she could allow. He kissed her, firm and breathless, arms wrapped so tightly around her she couldn’t tell where they began and ended. Did they need that distinction at all?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After the sonata comes applause, before another piece starts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were silent for a few moments. Then, so inaudible that Kym had to strain to hear, Will spoke into the damp curls of her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I wish she was here, Kym.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kym tightened her grip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know. I wish she was, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” He cried, his fingers curling around her waist, like she was his last anchor in his thunderstorm. “I’m sorry I’m like this. You don’t deserve this--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She bit out, harsher than she would have liked. She watched him look down, and the corners of his eyes were wet. She couldn’t make out if it was rainwater or salt, but she didn’t care for the distinction. She reached up a hand to wipe them away, thumb grazing over sodden, soft skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, and I’ll always come with you.” She declared. He looked surprised, and she could feel it beneath her palms, but she continued on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll drop everything--even if it means paperwork, you know--I’ll do it. All you have to do is say the word.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will looked as though he was trying to formulate a good response. His face contorted--but all he could manage was a kiss to her knuckles, a wet sob into her fingertips that had nothing to do with the rain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you stubborn, stupid man,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she implored into his chest. He could feel her so innately, all her edges and curves breaking through the glass of his composure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you calling me stupid, Ladell?” He said, his laugh watery. She looked delighted that she’d produced the sound out of him, and he longed, for her sake, to do it again, to never stop if it would make her shine like that, cheeks rosy and face damp with dew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Captain.” She said, mock seriously. Her lips curved into a pout, and her face took on the faraway look of a reminiscing seaman. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Never something so insulting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tilted her head back up, curving it so her face was at his jaw, and he anticipated a press of her lips, plush and like fire upon his feverish skin--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re an idiot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snorted, jostling her and causing her to yelp as she fell partially into the screen of rain. Grass spluttered beneath her feet as she clung to him in retaliation, yelling all the while. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well--I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>idiot, aren't I?" He asked, looking down affectionately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nodded. "Yeah. You are."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glanced down at the ground, eyes suddenly forceful, reverent.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And you were hers, too."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My little William. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will stopped, frozen in place by her words. She said it in that tone she reserved for when she would not accept an argument, and he found that he had no energy to engage one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was right. She was almost always right. He was hers and he was his mother's, too. But he was his, above all else. However much his grief felt raw as overripe fruit, disgustingly emotive and human--it was his to own. He was his, he had a name to himself, and that name was sacred.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will felt light, like the bluebirds flying in his vision at night. He could go anywhere, do quite whatever he liked, and that was the axiom of his existence by Kym’s side. He could be happy, sad, any version of blissfully maudlin--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’d live. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One last time before he turned to go, umbrella still in his fingers and arm still snug around his wife, he turned to look at his mother’s grave, to scan his mother’s name and commit the already memorized syllables to his memory. It still felt like scraping stone, but something about it was now resigned and collected. Josephine would never be a name that grated. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Josephine Hawkes. Josephine, Josephine, Josephine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The last time she spoke his name, he felt like flying, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My little Will,” she’d said, though he wasn’t so little anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, Maman?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you happy?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn’t have to think. Not with her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, Maman. I am happy, so happy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She smiled, and her smile was still beautiful. She would be more beautiful than the sun, no matter what form she took.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then that’s all I want.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then that’s all he would ever want.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>EYYYYYYYYYYYYY</p><p>I had to do the Kywi tag in the TLoF tags justice. I’d honestly had this idea for a while, but the recent chapters just spurred it on with more 🥝content :”) YES I know, I’m sorry. I’m here for u</p><p>(Rest assured that this is certainly NOT the only things I have planned for Kywi &gt;&gt;:) mark my words haha)</p><p>Sorry for my inactivity lately :”( my exams are next week, but once they’re finished I’m really hoping to get the last four chapters out soon. I am so so so excited for them you guys have NO IDEA &gt;:D</p><p>OH!! IMPORTANT!!: </p><p>Would you guys be interested in an official TLoF playlist? :0 I’ve been thinking about making one for a bit, and I could include the link in every chapter. There are a bunch of songs that are anthemic to TLoF and I thought!! It would be nice!! Please tell me if that would interest you :) </p><p>So much love from your little Peachie &lt;3 kudos/comments are marigolds </p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Yellow Hyacinths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yellow Hyacinths: Jealousy</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lauren would have to admit; she’d take mingling with college professors over noblemen a thousand times in a thousand other lives.</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> you’re </em>Mrs. Sinclair, aren’t you?” A warm-faced man asks as he holds out a broad palm, and she surmises that he must be the philosophy professor, Graham Marks. He certainly matched the description Kieran had given: a face like the sun and ruddy, rose tinted cheeks, accompanied by an amiable smile. </p><p> </p><p><em> "Chief Sinclair," </em>a woman, who Lauren accurately assumed was his wife, hissed, poking him in the side and casting an apologetic look. She emitted the exact same aura as her husband, features plump and ruby-adorned ears red with happiness. Lauren couldn't help but smile back at her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Show some respect--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry!" Mr. Marks looked abashed. </p><p> </p><p>The entire room, all of which were some form of colleague to Kieran, were focused intently on her introduction to the group, most of whom had never actually seen her from anything other than a distance before. The room certainly didn't hold its breath when she'd entered on Kieran's arm, but it had felt more akin to a collective sigh, where everyone came to terms with her being something more than a solemn statue.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran, standing on her right and looking casually handsome in dark navy, began to chuckle as he watched her try and deal with the fumbling man, who was evidently trying to assess which title wouldn't earn him her disapproval. She could feel his ease in this sort of environment, much how he could see the simple way she breezed through etiquette he deemed pedantic when in hers. His body leant like a relaxed bowstring, hands in his pockets and an affectionate gleam in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>"Please, <em> monsieur." </em>Lauren waved her hand, smiling, gesturing to them all. "None of that. I'm just Mrs. Sinclair-White, tonight."</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Marks laughed. "See, Maisie? I told you she'd be casual--"</p><p> </p><p><em> “I didn’t know!” </em>She laughed, relieved. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s because your <em> husband </em>here has been stingy on the details!” She heard from behind. She turned fractionally to see a man with hair as pale as straw sling an arm around Kieran and clap him on the back good-naturedly. Kieran grinned like a jackal, and she was surprised to see that they shared the look with each other, their smiles all gleaming white teeth.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not that I'm <em> stingy, </em>it's that if I shared you'd feel miserable for yourself, Klaus." Kieran said. </p><p> </p><p>"Shut up! Just because--"</p><p> </p><p>"It just never comes up!"</p><p> </p><p>"Listen--" the man named Klaus said, turning to Lauren and putting on a face of mock affront.</p><p> </p><p>"I will <em> never </em>forget the moment when they read out your husband's name on the roster--" he pointed to Kieran, arm still slung around his shoulders--"the reaction was like flashpaper! It was worse than when I spring a pop quiz on my students--"</p><p> </p><p>"Every student of yours hates you, Klaus," a man grumbled, to the amusement of the whole group. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran laughed. "Listen. What would have happened, really? If I had gone around--"</p><p> </p><p>His head tilted, and Lauren caught a brief glint in his eyes directed at her, sly and cunning.</p><p> </p><p>"--bragging about my <em> amazing </em>wife, hm? You all would’ve hated me!”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren clicked her tongue, and his face morphed into practiced innocence. </p><p> </p><p>“True.” Klaus admitted. He smiled amiably at Lauren.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re alright, then.” He pronounced. “It’s settled!”</p><p> </p><p><em> “That </em>was the assessment? You never take my word for anything--“</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren smiled, more at Kieran, his cheeks a dusky rose. She watched as he bantered easily with his colleagues, watched as the people around him converged in laughter. <em> This </em>was ease afforded, what perhaps had been novel to him. She wondered if he ever felt that way, suddenly taken aback by how smooth things were now.</p><p> </p><p>“I like that look on your face.”</p><p> </p><p>She broke out of her trace to see Mrs. Marks looking at her fondly, a sort of knowing smile playing about her generous lips. Lauren’s voice lodged in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“I--sorry. I don’t--”</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Marks laughed at her, clutching her shoulders affectionately. Another woman on her left who had skin like caramel and decked in bronze smiled ruefully, nudging her shoulder. “I’m sure a lot of men would <em> love </em>it if someone looked at them like that.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Monsieur Gelding over there, probably.” </em> Mrs. Marks whispered. <em> “His wife is lovely.” </em></p><p> </p><p>"Oh, do stop, Maisie." A woman clad in salt-glass tones laughed sharply. "I'm not--"</p><p> </p><p>"You <em> are, </em>he's very lucky. As is Mr. Sinclair-White."</p><p> </p><p>Lauren, her face the color of her hair, tried in vain to keep her eyes downcast, surveying the room as though looking for something interesting to pinpoint other than her embarrassing display of silent affection. Her gaze fixated on the homey nature of the Marks’ parlor: the creamy wallpaper, dusted with faded forget-me-nots, the soft scent of cooked duck and parsley in the air. The Marks’ seemed quite taken with the color yellow; it laced the yalls with it’s charm, the sunshine windowpanes and the large, stentorian vases filled with yellow hyacinths.</p><p> </p><p>She grimaced. Glancing over at Kieran, his eyes flicked to the planters as well, then back at hers. They were soft and cool, like a river. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s alright.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re sure? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah. Don’t worry about me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Enough of introductions!” Mrs. Marks clapped her hands, ceasing the discussion in the room. “Everyone seems to be here, so let’s get on with the night.”</p><p> </p><p>Before she could say anything, the caramel colored woman looped her arm through Lauren’s, her grin breathless. Another darted in front of her, pulling her along before she could protest. The women around her seemed to converge in a sudden wash of vanilla perfume and incense, and she could barely wave her hands in protest before she was caught up in a swirl of various colors of taffeta and gemstones.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll take good care of her!” She called back over her shoulder, pushing Lauren along with the other women into the dining room. Her command was so absolute that Lauren wondered if she herself would make a good officer.</p><p> </p><p>Before she turned the corner, she glanced back to see Kieran looking at her.</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, a genuine, soft one he gave to her when he wanted to be quiet about it. </p><p> </p><p><em> Have fun </em>he mouthed, lips barely moving.</p><p> </p><p>She smiled back, waving her fingers at him. His eyes traced her as she darted out of his sight, gaze following like a hawk.</p><p> </p><p><em> You too, </em>she managed, before she was tugged along and integrated into gossip and a chatter of sparkling china.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>It got boring pretty quick.</p><p> </p><p>It was not to say that they were not interesting company. On the contrary, Lauren found an appreciation for tittering whispering. It afforded her the opportunity to gain information, however sundry. If this was how she got news about which politician got caught sleeping with whose wife, then it meant she wouldn’t have to say anything about it later.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t been able to see much of Kieran all night. At dinner they’d sat side by side, his knee occasionally brushing hers under the table just to see if the look on her face could get any more scathing. He’d poured her a wine glass, and with an irritating quip about laying off the drink on her part, that was the final interaction. It often fell upon the sexes to segregate themselves instinctively, as though infiltrating the other party would be some kind of crime.</p><p> </p><p>If she were to criticize , that would be the one thing she lamented about a close party such as this. Kieran’s hand in hers throughout state dinners and affairs was more of a salve than she’d necessarily care to admit. Knowing his calloused palms would squeeze if she needed help, knowing a toss of his head and a quirk of his eyes was only a moment’s away; it was nice. A small science in adoration.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Marks had said, with cheeks like cherries. “You can feel free to make yourself at home, love. It’s really no bother.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They were horribly nice. Even though pretense was still a given, it was rather refreshing to not have it be so blatant. Lauren could recall a thousand times where the hosts’ pleas to make themselves at home had involved decidedly tiptoeing around every embellishment and personage in the house. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I’m happy to--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mrs. Marks had merely held up a finger in her face, clicking her tongue. The rubies in her ears winked from the chandelier lights as she turned and haphazardly adjusted a vase of yellow hyacinths. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I wouldn’t be a very good host if I let Mrs. Sinclair-White do everything for me!” She said. “Go!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Lauren flushed, and she laughed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Go find your husband, perhaps,” she said slyly, with a wink like a firework. “I saw his face. He looked rather put out that you weren’t with him.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t have been such a Herculean task. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually she found herself ensconced in a corner, body draped against the wall rather like a sad, crimson wallflower. Her only company was the flower vase beside her, filled with yellow hyacinths, which she felt her fingers toyed with as she came to terms with her crushing boredom. She was just glad they weren’t purple; she wasn’t sure how she would have been able to take it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Stop.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lauren shook her head, thumbing a pearl in her ear and slotting her lips to the rim of her glass. She didn’t particularly feel like drinking, but it gave her hands something to do as her eyes surveyed the room.</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Marks and his wife were talking animatedly by the window with the English professor, Madame Solon. It looked to be a casual discussion of the weather, but with the way Ms. Solon picked at the fringe of her dress and her gaze flitted erratically towards the exit, she ached to leave. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren couldn’t exactly blame her. The hosts had been more than generous, but the night had bled down to a single semicircle of moonlight, and she wished that she was in her bed, draped amongst the sheets so she could talk the rest of the sleepless dawn away with her husband. It was a dull hope, but one nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes flitted over Mr. Gelding, tossing his hair and failing to mask his embarrassment that his dart had made a wide arc far past the bullseye on the wall, much to the amusement of his company, the economics professor Marcus Beck and his wife, Edna. She smiled at the group of women by the staircase, talking about lip powders, and the small gaggle of children trying to catch a silver-cotton dog by its heels. Keen golden eyes roved over the assembled company like a falcon’s glare, searching for one braid of midnight hair, a set of sapphire eyes and a broad—<em> oh. </em></p><p> </p><p>She found Kieran by the far corner of the wall, in much a mimicry of her current stance.</p><p> </p><p>Save for the woman sidled up beside him. </p><p> </p><p>She remembered her from earlier that night. The rosy glass wife of Mr. Gelding. She’d threaded pearls into the cusp of her hair, and she was wearing that salty green color that not many could have genuinely pulled off. Her smile was wide and her cheeks full with rouge and a real, truthful blush, and she was ever the pretty young thing Lauren would have called her to her face.</p><p> </p><p>She was standing next to Kieran, ankles crossed over delicate bones and talking excitedly. Her fingers flew through the air with gesticulations and the tips were constantly through her hair, to her lips, on his arm—<em> on his arm— </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran had this way about him. Perhaps it was an assumed habit, or perhaps it was an innate quality of his, but whatever the case was, it made it feel as though you were the most important person in the room. He’d listen with this kind of rapt attention, eyes focused and clear on nobody but his target, and his face would light, pupils alight, as he’d laugh, and laugh that sweet, daring, stupidly charming laugh, just as he was now. </p><p> </p><p>Lauren felt something ugly.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t want to name it, at first. Her eyes swept over the starlight crowding the well lit room. Her mouth found the lip of her wine glass again, but as the bitter liquid went down and the stars winked to nothing she still stubbornly tried to pry down the monster gnashing its teeth within the bones of her chest.</p><p> </p><p>She pictured her hand on his arm, like she’d seen so many other women do at parties. She pictured fluttering lashes like butterfly wings and red lips like a basket of poppies. A flash of a yellow choker, or a dress like butter that sunk like hyacinths in a basin of still water. It hadn’t bothered her then. Why didn’t it bother her then?</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes darted to Kieran’s face again. She couldn’t help but feel rather silly, at that.</p><p> </p><p>He was laughing, yes, eyes crinkled and smile impossibly broad. But she knew him better than she knew her own skin, and the arrogance behind the teeth he bared made her want to laugh out loud. It was a wide face, given to fallacy and pantomime. Anyone who knew him could see that as the woman laughed, heaved her chest and batted at his arm, he was, at best, terribly bored--and at worst, annoyed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It wasn’t a real smile, his real smile. The one she’d earn in shades of dawn and sepia morning, when he’d peel back the peach satin covers from her face and kiss her blind. It wasn’t the one he’d give her when she pressed her side to his and pointed in the direction of their latest blessed machination. It wasn’t the smile he’d allow himself, small and delicate, on the nights when a storm threatened to crack blades of lightning.<br/></em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And it wasn’t anywhere near the smile that came from when she’d reach up on her toes, press her forehead to his, and tell him that she loved him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> She wasn’t sure anything could quite compare to </em>that.</p><p> </p><p>But despite this, despite knowing full well he wasn’t entertaining her, something still stirred. It was a feeling she, surprisingly, wasn’t unused to. A woman who had everything still yearned for the somethings she couldn’t grasp; her rank, her prestige back, all those years ago. And then safety. Security. Love. She remembered wanting so desperately to feel--</p><p> </p><p>Happy. <em>Happy, happy.</em></p><p> </p><p>And this woman, the wife of Mr. Gelding, with her hair like milk chocolate and wide, young eyes, glimmering chartreuse and dainty, delicate feet. She looked every bit happy. Lauren was sure she had worries; everyone did. But she probably didn’t wake up screaming her throat raw in the middle of the night, dreaming of spires licked with flame. And she probably didn’t get irrationally upset over a gladiolus stem, or have long, violet bags under her eyes from sleep. She probably didn’t have any lack of affection, either, from the way she was now clinging resolutely to Kieran’s arm, lips moving in a mantra Lauren couldn’t discern. </p><p> </p><p>She was young, free. She was everything Lauren wished she could be. And, Lauren realized with a pang--</p><p> </p><p>Someone Kieran deserved.</p><p> </p><p>Because Kieran deserved <em> so </em>much. </p><p> </p><p>It was <em> that </em> realization that led her to confront the scratching inside her chest, what she knew as jealousy. She loathed to give it the courtesy of a name. </p><p> </p><p>She found she couldn’t be particularly <em>angry</em> at anyone--not Kieran, not Mrs. Gelding--nobody but herself deserved any anger. She was the one to blame-- <em> she </em>was the one who couldn’t keep a straight face.</p><p> </p><p>She swept her hair back from her face. She’d chosen to leave it down tonight, instead of a tight coiff which would pull at the roots of her hair and leave her massaging her temples after the fact. Right now it seemed like a cotton prison, causing curious warmth amongst the cold feeling in her limbs. She debated with herself. Should she make her way over there? What would she say or do? Should she make a fool of herself or sit by the wall sulking like a wilted flower?</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t have to do any of that.</p><p> </p><p>Attuned as they were, Kieran chose that moment to find her in the crowd. He didn’t need to try; his eyes darted over to her as if he’d known she was there the whole time, as if he’d memorized her placement on a chess board perfectly. He smiled, and it was such a difference from the one he’d given the woman beside him that Lauren felt an immediate, pressing shame. It was open, honest, full, and she couldn’t help but smile back, even halfheartedly.<br/><br/></p><p>His eyes darted to the woman beside him, chattering away, then back up to hers, throwing her a look of desperation. She snorted.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Help me out, here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She placed a hand on her hip, pressing her lips into a mocking pout and laughing at his affronted expression.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Need some help, subordinate? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes. Can you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Aw-- </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> She’s </em> nice <em> and all, but-- </em> </p><p> </p><p>He tilted his head, eyes wide and significant. Lauren laughed despite herself, her irrational irritation ebbing as she set down her glass on the table beside her. She had a plan in mind, and an intent as she began to make her way forward, eyes never leaving his face.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re going to owe me so much, you know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I already owe you too much, mon cœur. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She smiled. </p><p> </p><p>Then, with the grace and poise of a swan, she was right in front of them. When they registered her presence it was as simple as a clap of thunder. Mrs. Gelding stepped back slightly, a surprised look on her face. Kieran just looked at her knowingly, a pretend look of confusion on his face. Underneath, there was only affection.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ”Madame—“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran, dear--” she began, voice syrupy and hoarse, as though she’d crawled miles. She looped her arm possessively around his left one, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. She tilted her face up to his, batting her lashes like honey and vanilla and pursing her lips—</p><p> </p><p>“I think I have a bit of a headache.”</p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p>They made their excuses and left as swiftly as they could. They’d elected to walk, as their house wasn’t far from the Marks’ estate. But it was a chilly night despite it being late spring, and Lauren had to wrap her arms around herself regardless of her thick, stiff coat. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran walked in time with her, hands in his pockets and head thrown up to the wind. His hair blew back from where it’d come loose from its braid, soft tendrils brushing the wink of his jaw and the barest lip of his lashes. She watched as he sighed, opening his eyes and tilting his head towards her.</p><p> </p><p>“Had fun?”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugged. The Marks’ had a bed of yellow hyacinths twined with purple in their front garden, and she was determined to not let Kieran see it. No doubt he already had; but a fruitless effort was one nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>"I did. They were very pleasant." She smiled over at him. "You chose good friends." </p><p> </p><p>He grinned, face alight with fond happiness. "I did, didn't I?"</p><p> </p><p>She held herself tighter, hands clasped to the exposed skin at her collar. His joy was normally infectious, but something in her mind kept replaying the crushing despair she felt when Mrs. Gelding had placed her arm in his.</p><p> </p><p>"It got devastatingly lonely at the end, though." She could hear Kieran pout. "I tried to go over to you, but--"</p><p> </p><p>"You didn't seem all too lonely, then." She said, trying to keep a grumble out of her low voice.</p><p> </p><p>"Ah. Yes, she came up to me and mentioned something about the art program--very debilitating conversation." He intoned blithely. </p><p> </p><p>"Well. She seemed scintillating enough company." Lauren said quietly, twisting her ring around her finger.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran hummed. They walked in silence for a while, bulbs of light above them passing over their heads like fireflies. </p><p> </p><p>When she chanced a look over at him, she found his face curious, a strange look marking his features with stunned amusement. Before she could manage to ask he had turned towards her with such eagerness that it took her aback. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Lauren—“ </em>he laughed incredulously, bending slightly to try and catch her evasive eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“—were you <em> jealous?" </em></p><p> </p><p>She inhaled sharply, eyes wide. <em> Damn it. </em></p><p> </p><p>In lieu of an answer she merely cants her head down, shoulders slightly hunched and a small pout on her lips. Kieran looks on in silence, his eyes positively shining with mirth.</p><p> </p><p><em> “No— </em>were you really—?!”</p><p> </p><p>“Just—shut up, would you, subordinate?” She chastises, batting his arm in a halfhearted attempt. He continued on, drawing an affectionate arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, darling—this is a perfect opportunity for me—!”</p><p> </p><p>She continued to be uncharacteristically silent, and that’s when he really quieted, his grin slowly fading in the din of dark night. The stars twinkled a tune above them, as his face becomes pensive, expression stoic.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” He said, suddenly serious. “You <em> know </em>I wouldn’t—“</p><p> </p><p>“No, of course I know that,” she dismissed hurriedly, looking up at him finally. Her face was slightly distressed, and the growing alarm on his face didn't help.</p><p> </p><p>The way he’s looking at her only makes her feel <em> more </em> guilty—it’s too <em> earnest, </em>too loving. It lances through her again—that realization that the way he looks at her now could never hold a candle to his slow tolerance of Mrs. Gelding; the horrible feeling of shame she had cultivated rising and settling in her stomach like lead.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't deserve him, none of this, none of the happiness she'd been given, because damn it all, even when he looks at her like she's the reason the world turns, she can't appreciate it.</p><p> </p><p>“I—“ she sighs, looking down again, her fingers toying with the soft lace of her corset as she walks. “It’s nothing, really—“</p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t <em> seem </em>like nothing, darling,” he said, infuriatingly matter-of-fact, and he’s still looking down at her, attentive, hanging off her every word. Lauren flushed slightly, shaking her head and staring resolutely forward, hand now burning holes in her coat pockets.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just—“ she halts, and Kieran’s hold on her tightens reassuringly. She lookef up at him and he smiled encouragingly, and that’s what forces it out of her.</p><p> </p><p>“I—“ she pauses. “She just—“</p><p> </p><p>She bites her lip. “She just looked...<em> happy.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran nearly pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, but Lauren takes his arm and tugs, so his only choice is his hitched breath and perplexed look.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What—?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I just </em> —“ she grimaced. “It sounds horrible now that I’m saying it but I—she looked so very <em> happy, </em> and <em> unbothered, </em>and I just had the fleeting thought that it would be nice for you to have someone like that—someone who you…”</p><p> </p><p>She stopped, and if she’d looked up she would have been able to see the way his face contorted in static horror.</p><p> </p><p>“...who you didn’t have to sit up with at night and console. Or worry about when they’re gone for an inordinate amount of time.”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugged. “You deserve—more than <em> me, </em>anyhow—“</p><p> </p><p>Still, he did not say anything.</p><p> </p><p>“You—deserve a <em> lot, </em>Kieran.” She said, looking down at her heels.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m...sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Kieran fell dead silent.</p><p> </p><p>When she became uneasy at his silence, she turned to look at him, intending to apologize again, for making the topic so dreary.</p><p> </p><p>The expression on his face—</p><p> </p><p>She immediately regrets saying anything at all. Perhaps she could take it all back, swallow it whole and leave the ugly feeling to lay inside her forever.</p><p> </p><p>He looks so <em> sorrowful </em> . <em> Hurt </em>, almost, as he looks only at her, as his face turns to stone.</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran. Say something.”</p><p> </p><p>He did not. His face was impossibly blank. They kept walking, the only sound their synchronized steps on the pavement. Lauren looked ahead, to avoid having to confront the growing fear in her heart. She knew, she <em> knew </em>it was irrational, but—</p><p> </p><p>“...Lauren.” </p><p> </p><p>Her name is like a punch to her gut.</p><p> </p><p>He tries visibly tries to say more, mouth opening and closing. In the end he can only laugh in disbelief, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you…” she bit her lip. “Mad?”</p><p> </p><p>He laughed. It sounded like a bark, rough and full of derision to the lip.</p><p> </p><p>“No. Or, well. Maybe. I'm still deciding."</p><p> </p><p>Lauren bristled.</p><p> </p><p>“Then…?”</p><p> </p><p>He stopped, turning to her, tilting his head and looking at her dead on. When he spoke, he nearly shouted.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You </em> think <em> I </em> don’t deserve <em> you?!” </em></p><p> </p><p>She stopped, a surprised look on her face. She blushed, fingers playing with the sleeves of her dress, drawing them over her palms. “Well--”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> know, </em> darling--” he drew himself up, raking a hand through his hair, mussing it about his temples--” if you understand how <em>stupid</em> that sounds, but--”</p><p> </p><p>“But I mean--!” She threw up her hands. “What am I? A sorry excuse for a police officer who can’t even get over the death of her best friend after--what, <em> twenty </em>years, who still has nightmares about it every damn day--”</p><p> </p><p>Kieran flinched, and Lauren felt she should stop. Once she found herself going, however, she found she couldn’t. The words, some twenty years of insecurities, came tumbling out.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t sleep. I can’t think, some days. And I can’t <em> bear </em>to see that look on your face, sometimes, Kieran--when I come into your office sometimes at night--or that day you found me in the shower--or that time I got myself hurt and didn’t tell you--”</p><p> </p><p>She grimaced. “I don’t want you to have that kind of pain on your face. You have things you need to work through and you don’t--you don’t need me--”</p><p> </p><p>She looked down.</p><p> </p><p>Kieran was silent for a long while. She almost felt as though he’d disappeared, his old habit unable to stop his steps from being utterly silent and unpronounced. It felt as though she was alone on the steep, shadows trailing behind her and aching for the flowerbeds.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he spoke, and his voice was soft, quiet. Almost gentle.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you remember when I asked you to marry me, darling?” </p><p> </p><p>Lauren started. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I remember.” She smiled despite herself. “How could I forget that?”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled ruefully, a small half moon on his lips. “Well. Then you recall when I told you that you could have any man you wanted? That it was a farce to me that you’d want to be with <em>me?”</em></p><p> </p><p>Lauren stilled. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“And?” He shrugged, a graceful hum of his shoulders that left her feeling slightly grated. “Was I lying?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. You never lie to me.” She said, quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> That’s </em>a lie, now. I lie to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not about the important things, <em> mon bonheur.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran shook his head. “You see?”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren turned, the hem of her frock shifting about her ankles. “I—“</p><p> </p><p>“Lauren.” He said, something in his voice stalling the words on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“You know who you married. <em>I am the Purple Hyacinth—“</em></p><p> </p><p>”Kieran—“</p><p> </p><p>”—You know you stand beside the worst person to try and give you happiness. And you <em> know </em>that for whatever groaning you do about your—“</p><p> </p><p>He sneered. “Your nightmares. You know pretty damn well that if anyone should be talking about being an inconvenience, it’s <em> me—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Kieran—“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “So you see?” </em>He darted in front of her. He towered over her, and finally took his hands out of his coat pockets to take hers in his. His hands were warm. They always were. They lit a fire in her heart as though he were stoking it with his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“You know who I am.” He said solemnly. “Nobody else does. I couldn’t trust anyone else the way I could you. I could never let someone learn me as well as you have. I don’t have anyone else I want to be with.”</p><p> </p><p>And then, taking her by surprise, he bent down and kissed her, right there on the pavement. It was chaste and cruel, too short for her to run her hands through his hair or properly memorize the form of his lips. But when he pulled away, he gave her that smile, the one that wouldn’t compare to anything else.</p><p> </p><p>“We know what it’s like to hurt. And if that means—“ he whispered, nose pressed against hers—“that I have to hold you, talk you out of a nightmare, or fight it out with you until we both see straight—“</p><p> </p><p>His smile could shatter lighting. She loved him, she <em> loved </em>him. </p><p> </p><p>“—then I’ll do it gladly. Because you do the same with me, and I have to work to deserve that kind of kindness. I have to work to deserve you, my wife.”</p><p> </p><p>Lauren sobbed. It embarrassed her; a half-starved noise playing in guttural synchrony. But she couldn’t help the pressing smile on her face, the pink of her lips when she reached up, breathless, and kissed him with all the adoration she could muster. He brushed her bangs back from her forehead tenderly, pulling back to press a kiss to the corner of her lips before stepping away and tugging her along by the arm. Her elbow fit snugly in his; like a puzzle piece, edges slotting into edges.</p><p> </p><p>“So!” He began, holding out a hand. “We agree that you shall never say anything like you just did again--and if you’re ever feeling jealous, you be honest with me immediately.”</p><p> </p><p>He grinned wildly, and it was back to teasing. “Deal?”</p><p> </p><p>She shook his hand. What else would she ever do?</p><p> </p><p>“Deal, subordinate.” </p><p> </p><p>They fell into a comfortable silence, and she barely noticed when the hyacinth trellises stopped crying yellow and when the sidewalk bled into illuminated brick. They were nearing the threshold of their house, and Lauren ached for their bed. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran, who had been silent since he shook her hand, suddenly leaned down, smooth as buttercream, and whispered in her ear. His voice was low, having jumped octaves into the territory of dangerous, and it shot a quiver into her belly.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You know…” </em> He began. <em> “In the spirit of being honest—“ </em></p><p> </p><p>He caught her to him, side pressing into side. She felt the firm grip of his arm sidling to her waist, and stopped the protest on her tongue when she looked into his face and found only dark, dilated pulls.</p><p> </p><p><em> “It’s not like </em> I’ve <em> never been jealous before.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Her eyes widened. She stared at him, his eyes unwavering. He looked like a predator with the moonlight pricking geometry into his cheekbones, with something edging mischief in his mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” She said breathlessly, eyes darting from his own to his lips. “Tell me about it, then.”</p><p> </p><p>He hummed, tilting his head. His voice sent a shiver through her, even though she was feeling horribly warm under all her finery. She wished they were at the door already.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Dozens of times, mon amour. You must know how everyone’s breath stops when you walk into a room. It’s really hard to miss when some poor sod looks like he’s just been punched. I imagine it’s the exact same way I look whenever you’re around, after all.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lauren wasn’t sure if she was still breathing. Damn him, <em> damn </em>him and his stupid, silly charm. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you remember, at your inauguration, when that man touched your shoulder to guide you away from the group? I felt it then. I knew you’d handle yourself, surely, but what I wouldn’t have given to pull you to me right then, hm?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Kieran—“</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Or when you coached those new officers and that one kid looked at you like you were the damn sun. I bit my lip. I bit my lip and stayed quiet and watched as he gushed over you with puppy dog eyes and wished I could push you into one of the storage closets and have my way with you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She battled internally, whether to push off and chastise him, or to grab his hair and kiss his infuriating smoulder away. The ache in her was starting to really hurt, burn with desire.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You walk around at those functions we attend looking like a goddess and you think people aren’t going to notice? That </em> I’m <em> not going to notice and fight off the urge to hold you so close that nobody else but I can see you? That I don’t want to do that right now?” </em></p><p> </p><p>He got closer still, right up to her ear, teeth bared.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That just this evening, when Graham was talking to you, taking your hands and smiling all adoring-like, that I wasn’t thinking about kissing you? That when that woman was spitting words at me that I was already looking at that pretty bit at your shoulder and wishing I could—“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The latter urge won out.</p><p> </p><p>In an instant she’d slammed him against the door, feet tripping into his arms as she kissed him blind, lips so firm her teeth hurt. Apparently he was still somewhat sound of mind, for amidst a groan of her name his fingers had found the knob of the door, deft lockpick fingers already unlatching it, the both of them tumbling inside by the heels. </p><p> </p><p>Kieran was on her the moment the door closed, fingers divesting her of her coat and catching on her dress; her hands tangled in his braid, fighting for the ribbon. When she drew back, she could only manage a halting sentence, one that brought that smile out on his kiss-bitten face, one that she felt meant she had won the night, in the end.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s see if all that is just talk, then.” She challenged. She’d never stop challenging him. If she’d only call to him, he’d answer her.</p><p> </p><p>The last thing she registered was the bark of his laughter, sweeping and grand and terribly dear to her, before she and him were lost together.<br/><br/></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Y’ALL THOUGHT. Y’ALL THOUGHT I, THE FOUNDER OF SKA, WOULD SIMPLY DO JEALOUS!KIERAN and be done with it?? Nooooooooo NOO HAHA I HAD TO ADD F L A V O R </p><p>*cough* anywho</p><p>Hey guys!! Thank you so so much for 5k+ that’s seriously insane. Wow. 💕I apologize for being sort of inactive in commenting/interaction lately :”( know that I am reading everything everyone is putting out and I love each and every one of you &lt;3</p><p>🌿🌸🌺AND ON THAT NOTE, AS PROMISED: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6F46tWbnduHq41KwDp9NNG?si=UBIPyVw_Tjueokfko0vdxA"> Here </a> is the official link to the TLoF Spotify playlist! Have fun! :D I hope you enjoy</p><p>I’ll also try and put it in the daisy summary which never seems to disappear underneath the chapter lol</p><p>Kudos/comments are yellow hyacinths to me &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Forget-Me-Nots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Forget-Me-Nots: true love, please don’t forget me</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They fall away from each other like a lock and key that can’t bear to be apart.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Lauren crashes into her pillow and heaves a blanket around her, she feels a distinct sense of loss as she turns to look at her husband. He’s equally as disheveled, black hair an underlayer of paint around sharp muscle and lively breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran settles, muscles relaxing slowly and a lazy, blameless smile on his face. He exhales, a sigh that turns to a sated chuckle under the rasp of his voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, closing her eyes and letting the phantom press of his hands seconds prior fade to nothing but a consistent wish, a thirst she will bury in soil and leave to take root at a whim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Something you want to say, subordinate?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can feel the shake of Kieran's head along the pillows, can feel him arch like a cat and press his toes into the mattress as he sits up and stretches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not a bit, </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling." </span>
  </em>
  <span>He says, voice as calm as practice, which amounts to nothing. It shakes with latent satisfaction, making her preen internally. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren turns to look at him, twisting her head and allowing him to lean down and place a searing kiss on her lips. She chases his ardor with her fingers, palm flat on his neck to keep him where she wants. His hair falls about their faces, and she threads her fingers into the small black strands that hide at his nape. He signs his name with every fluctuation, etching the graceful strength of his love like chalk as he kisses her over and over, warm like a hearth in winter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Drawing back, he tilts his head and catches his breath. The room was that of the cusp of evening, bronze glinting off the burnished edges of the house with sepia coloring, a feeling like an old photograph. It was almost unreal, nostalgic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You alright?" He asked suddenly. She had sighed in an attempt to chase her own breath, and she turned to look at him in some contempt as she faced his smug, devilish grin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.</span>
  <em>
    <span>"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waves a hand, laughing as she bats at his arm indignantly. She was hedging around the truth of it, that she doesn’t mind, terribly. His grin, while irritatingly persistent, is also flushed, warm, content. She liked him like that better than any other version of him, cat to his canary or no.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steals another kiss before pressing on. “You sure you’re alright? I didn’t—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head vigorously. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods in reluctant acceptance. He knows she’s not lying to him when she smiles like that, full lips and just the barest hint of white teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To her surprise he suddenly sits upright, twisting to grab something from the nightstand and pass it to her. She registers the small glass of water he’d placed there that afternoon, unthinkingly. It was as though he’d suddenly remembered it was there at all. The water shook in ripples, reflecting the yellows and rosy reds of twilight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drink.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She throws him a despairing look, to which he responds with a raise of his eyebrow and a significant tilt of his head. She could argue, but the fact of the matter is that he is correct, and rather than admit it to him she takes the glass from his hands reluctantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious.” He says. “Drink.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shrugs, but takes one sip anyway. That sip turns to two, three, and he looks pointedly at her as she downs the whole glass. Lauren rolls her eyes over the lip, but the water does send a slight chill through her, a subtle thunderclap that has her bones slightly alert.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know what would need this more than me?” She says, lifting the rim in an illustrative gesture. He follows her movements with lazy eyes, settling back down and laying the covers right at his abdomen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That vase.” She says. He turns, and sure enough, a jar of muted blue ceramic filled with forget-me-nots faces him. The flowers had seen much brighter days: they curled in reluctance, startling, regal azure starting to turn brown at the tips. He frowned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only picked them two days ago,” he mutters, disappointed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His wife shrugs, handing back the glass. “They don’t last for very long. They’re small, and water only goes so far.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran clicks his tongue. “Sure. Probably not the best flower to display, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren only hummed, falling back onto the sheets with a sigh, shrugging wayward strands out of her face. “I don’t know. Flowers are fickle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure. The daisies I get you fade after a couple hours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles fondly. “Maybe it’s a sign you should get me more, hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns on his side to face her, the sheets moving with him and pooling at his stomach. “I’ll have to change them soon—remind me. Wouldn’t do any good if they start to rot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Curled up like this, she always has to pause and reconcile his image. Gone are the sharp edges of the man who still lies dormant within, gone is the silent cat who flashes his teeth and calls himself the devil. In its place is a simple boy with honeycomb skin and ocean eyes who looks at her with nothing but the utmost admiration. Sometimes it’s hard to stomach, just how much she really loves him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you like me to?” He asks, half serious. She has to laugh, a mental image of him uprooting the whole garden playing on her tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shakes her head. “No. You’re right—they do die, eventually. They’re admittedly better when I can keep looking at them.” She mused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran closes his eyes, his hair fanning about on the pillow. When it’s loose like this, astray around his head like wisps of charcoal, he looks at once both hopelessly youthful and treacherously old. As the years go by his face gets sharper, brow more pronounced. She traces the steep bridge of his nose with her eyes, the hard slope of his jaw which she’d held just minutes before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But what never seemed to fade were the gentle gait of his eyes, the meticulous way they’d wander, or the subtle press of his lips, like an artist appreciating the wonders the world had to offer. He appeared in this sense timeless, like he’d live for eons and still have that artful youth about his shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s funny, almost.” She finds herself saying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” He murmurs noncommittally, one hand straying to the curve of her waist over the blanket, so that she can’t appreciate the blazing fire of his fingertips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How we obsess over picking flowers.” She shrugs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it’s the afterglow, making her say silly things. Or perhaps it’s his attention on her, implicitly knowing that he’d never think her foolish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...When we know that if we pick them, they’ll only wither. Lose their beauty.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran chuckles. “That’s just selfishness, darling. That’s how it always is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren gave him a wan smile, hand toying with her fingers in an absent gesture. Something about the evening tinges yellow with sorrow; something about the narrow pathway from day to night breeds nostalgia and recompense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the same with people too, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head to look at him. He’s got a little frown on his face, eyes like the bud of a forget-me-not, royal blue and virile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean—“ he waves a hand, lifts a inky brow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We try so hard to capture beauty so we can't forget it—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nodded, seeing where he was going with this. He had a curiously introspective look on his face; his eyes were downcast as he rolled over again, joining her in staring at the ceiling. He seems to sink into the bedsheets, flush and weightless amongst frosty silks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"—But it never works, does it?" He hummed. "Reality is always somehow better. Or at least I find.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She liked listening to him like this; his voice was calm, quiet, gentle. He took the world in his hands, tried to name every unnameable thing there was, and something about doing that with her by his side was positively lovely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Going all soft on me, huh?" She teased. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Is it unlike me?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No." She pursed her lips. "Not that--" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. It’s just—I like hearing your thoughts on it.” She settled with a small sigh, trying to ease out her bones from when he’d jumped them minutes before. She stares up at the ceiling and watches the evening paint mosaics of the leaves that lie beyond their bedroom window, the fragments of dust that flit through the air like spun salt. In her peripheral she watches him do the same, body moving in synchrony. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because—well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t know, obviously.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought artists liked...I dunno. Capturing the moment, no matter to what length.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran laughed, some stifled crackle within his chest. “I suppose some think of it like that. But you know me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” He smiles. “I prefer what I can see. What moves in front of me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard some people say death makes for an interesting subject.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She regrets the words as soon as they leave her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bed does not grow cold; but she fears she'll feel him retreat somewhere she can’t find him anymore, that pocket of misery he keeps around to store his grief in. She quickly clasps his hand to hers, lacing their fingers together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran—I’m so—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He says, voice guttural. He shakes his head, hair dappling the ridges of his pillow. He sounds determined, chasing off a rugged elegy with nothing but willpower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. I understand. Some people have told me that, I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t believe that, I know you don’t,” she whispers. She doesn’t know why her voice goes quiet; perhaps because this subject is something sacred to them, that volume would insult its nature. That if she spoke it any louder, it would offend the silent night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No." He says firmly, eyes trained on the ceiling, a note of thought in them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No. Life is beautiful that way. It creates opportunity so we may capture it. That’s it’s purpose.” He declares.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not saying any subject matter lacks value. I just think humanity is worth painting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren hums. He looks lost in thought, pupils quivering and breathing even.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Go on. You look like you want to make another point."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran shot her a look, cheeks mildly flushed. "Well. No. It's just--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hm?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Something happened the other day that made me think. Before I planted those--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pointed to the forget-me-nots on the nightstand. "--I tried to get a quick sketch out. I was working away and my hand cramped up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren was surprised. His movements were always trained and graceful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran nodded, tucking an arm under his head, muscles pulling taut. His scars rippled like a broken china plate on his skin, burnished gold in sepia moonlight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I know. It surprised me too. It was momentary—and it hasn’t happened again! But it did make me wonder--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned his head, staring at the forget-me-nots. "--how this is all going to work when I'm older."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, be quiet." Lauren huffed. "I know I joke, but you're really not </span>
  <em>
    <span>old--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But that's just the thing!" He protested. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am, </span>
  </em>
  <span>aren't I? In terms of--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He paused. "--where I thought I'd be, anyway."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren grew silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I never planned this far, you know." He says quietly, lips barely moving. "I didn't...I didn't dare think past twenty-five."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I didn't either." Lauren admitted, hands running through her hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We were just living day by day, huh?" He laughed ruefully. "I don't think I could've imagined it would turn out like this."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shook her head. "Never."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I never imagined I could be this…happy."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was said with warmth. But something in it made Lauren feel a bit morose. "Kieran--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I wouldn't change it." He said quickly. "But sometimes I wonder what the future will be like."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"For us?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No. No, not for us." He grimaced. "This isn't quite coming out correctly."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I think I get what you're driving at." Lauren said gently, frowning. "But try."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It's... just—I don't know how it's going to work, in an age that I never planned for, you know?" Kieran shrugged. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"When you're old, you mean."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snickers. "Yeah. When I'm old and crotchety and you have to spoon feed me mashed peas."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm not doing that." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No?!" He turned, face in a comical pout. "I have such a cruel wife!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm not cruel!" She huffed, brushing strands of her hair out of her eyes. She set her fingers on her stomach, playing with the lip of the bedsheets where it hedged over her bare skin. The searing warmth she'd felt long before from his touch was starting to fade, leaving her feeling odd and frigid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I just don't feel like thinking about that."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran clicked his tongue. "I don't think anyone wants to think about how old they're getting, no. I'm sorry for bringing it up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't be." She said softly. "I think I get it. It's not like I haven't considered what it will be like when my body starts failing me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That day won't come any time soon, I'm sure." He says comfortingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Really. Knowing you, your stubborn head will keep you kicking. You'll hold on like dying would be some personal offense to you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up-" </span>
  </em>
  <span>she swatted his arm, ignoring his throaty, infectious laughter. He pressed a slight kiss to her knuckles, lacing their fingers together. Something about his affection was even more distressing, chafing against her in a bundle of nerves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And anyway—“ he looked up at the ceiling, voice thoughtful. “I’ll be gone by then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was said very matter-of-factly, as though he were talking about the weather. Lauren stilled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, of course—“ he turned to her, threadbare sheets groaning in starchy shifts—“I plan on dying before you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren relaxed.“You made that decision without telling me, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well—“ he frowned. “It’s a given. I’m absolutely dying before you. You understand, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s looking at her simply, face open. She never used to know what he was thinking, but now she’s learned his face so well that it’s irritating how easily she can read the pout of his brow, the fan of sweat on his neck, the rice paper crinkles that line his cheeks. She can peruse it like a library, know it like a lullaby. He is gloriously hers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I--" he stopped. "I don't think I could possibly--"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped, face stricken. She could see it flicker behind his eyelids, images she wished he wouldn’t dwell on. The press of stone, the marble of a cypress tree, a dried well of forget-me-nots, reduced to blue ochre. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I don't think I could. Go on, you know? You understand?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She supposed she did understand. But she hesitates, eyes unwavering in pensive thought, fingers still over her stomach, folded like a judge in court. She opens her mouth, lips swollen with his long-bitten kisses, and her reluctance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…I think I’d want you to die before me, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks over at her, surprised. “Oh? You’re giving up a chance to win a bet against me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t smile. Her eyes focus intently on the ceiling above them, and when she speaks her words are carefully chosen, purposeful moves on a chess board. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>understand. If it were any other person I would say that I would most definitely want to go before you—I would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>so, horribly </span>
  </em>
  <span>lonely. But—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns to look at him, then. Her eyes are ablaze with some odd light, like the sun’s rotation behind the horizon is only a trajectory to spill into her glorious face, alight with an intent he can’t discern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—Since it is you. I want you to die before me. Because—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses significantly. Perhaps it is the unknown of being vulnerable that makes her hesitate. Perhaps it is the din of evening, the smell of linen and rotting forget-me-nots that makes her desperate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it is the taste of caramel in the colors of the room, the warm pressure of his body beside her in tandem, and the waning glory of him touching her to such a degree of reverence that she can still feel his adoration bend her every curve, that she says what she wants to say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because being the one left behind hurts more. You don’t deserve to be the one who dies last. It is a burden heavier than actually dying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches his face line with shock, smiling sadly as fractals of decision splinter behind her lashes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will be the one to shoulder that burden for us both.” She declares, staring at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I want to be the one left behind, so that you don’t have to be alone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches him keenly, solemnly. Kieran says nothing. It feels as though he hardly even breathes—and who could fault him for that, after what she just said? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His face says everything, reads like a roll of film. It hits him very suddenly; it’s as though he were standing ankle deep in the throes of an ocean, suddenly overwhelmed with a torrential crescendo, slamming into his lungs and taking any hope of life he had left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That one day there will be a world without her in it, whether it be by his own design or hers, and when he thinks about it, she is absolutely correct. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if she went before him, doesn’t know how he could take another step if he knew for certain it was one she wouldn’t follow suit with. She is correct; she’s always correct. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is correct, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves </span>
  </em>
  <span>her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He loves Lauren. He loves her </span>
  <em>
    <span>so. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He loves her to a point of aching, loves to distraction. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love, </span>
  </em>
  <span>love is horrible, inadequate. There should be another word, another sound he can produce that could describe the feeling in his chest, the one that kindles the very trenches of his belly, fills him longing for more time. A time where this topic is long into the future, instead a tread of imminence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is no word for that. Words would be an insult, a crime against the breadth of his own feelings. He would sully it, as he did everything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead he suddenly throws an arm around her and buries her against his chest. The swan dive of his neck feels like the hollow of a bird’s nest, the comforting kindling of a home. She can feel the erratic march of his heartbeat, can smell poppies and sweat and the salt of the ocean, can steep his warmth through to her like a sieve of cheesecloth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows she doesn’t need to say anything. She merely wraps her arms around his waist, cold fingers skirting his ribcage and charting every blessed bone she can manage, so there will never be a part of him she does not know. Their bare legs tangle together under the sheets, and they are one person, two entities made of one half. They will never be anything else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I love you," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hisses hopelessly against her shoulder. "I love you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shudders with his every word, wanting to cry at the way his breath catches on her skin. If her tears wash his chest, they will erode his muscle and leave him mere dust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I love you, Kieran. I do."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I love you </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much." It's muffled, but she feels it spread through her whole body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Good night." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Good night, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cœur."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hold each other against a storm, one they were born into and bred to have qualms with. Just for a little bit longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just for a little bit longer, they ask. Just for a little bit longer, so their breathing can harmonize into an untraceable, mournful song. So they can wake up another day and replace the vase of forget-me-nots, that they may shine like the ocean again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just for a little bit longer, time the Sinclair-Whites are rarely afforded. Longer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>longer. I want to be with you longer. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It will never be long enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When you just want pillowtalk and then it gets depressing ✨</p><p>I cannot tell you. How long I’ve had this in my head. TLoF, as I’ve said before, is about capturing the simpler moments in life. It’s about those moments that you would normally find insignificant. I hope this does something for someone, showcasing that you don’t really need something terribly grand to be evocative of emotion :”&gt; </p><p>(I would also like to wish my 🦞a very thank you for absolutely destroying this chapter upon first mention. You know who you all are. Square up)</p><p>ON THAT NOTE!! next chapter is where we start to wrap things up for good. I’m so, so so so so so excited that it might even come some time soon lol. It’s just. It’s gonna be good!!! </p><p>Friendly reminder that you can find the TLoF playlist below!</p><p>Comments/kudos are forget me nots &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Hydrangeas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hydrangeas: heartfelt gratitude at being understood</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Haven’t you heard?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her footsteps bleed into her heartbeat, a dual rhythm that cries all her woes. She isn’t quite sure when she started to run, or when her breath became so labored. All she can pinpoint, in her limbo of adrenaline, is that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> running, running a straight path from her office—past the tea shop and the flower garden and </span>
  <em>
    <span>L’Eglise, </span>
  </em>
  <span>brown and bitter and high like the scent of coffee—hurtling towards the center of Ardhalis.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren, you’ve heard, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere along the way she has to clutch her coat tighter, pull herself together before she falls apart completely on the pavement. It’s desperate, happening as she picks petals from her fingernails, as her black heels tic on uneven cobble. It happens as anxiety mounts, as Lauren Sinclair works the entire situation over in her head, looking for flaws and blemishes and places where something could go awry. <br/><br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve heard? What’s happening today?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happens as the Tower gets closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happens when she thinks of him again, and the prospect of him being, for the first time in a millennia, something she can reach out to, something tactile she can run underneath her fingertips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happens when she thinks of him smiling at her, the barrier between them unfettered and undefined by metal bars, relearning the feeling of being by his side again. For him to be her uncaged bird.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lauren!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kym nearly kicks her office door off its hinges when she bursts in, holding her knees and breathing like she’d just run a marathon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kym—“ </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Haven’t you heard?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She sets down her pen, fingers finding her radio. “What? Heard what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kym inhales—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s free today.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren stops.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...what-“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>free today, Lauren. They’re letting him go. Now. Just decided.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren stared.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Will—said to tell you.” She managed, a very small, barely detectable smile on her lips.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren looked at her unseeingly, hand still frozen on her receiver. Kym’s eyes made rapid work of her posture, assessing her once, twice, then—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go! Dammit, I’ll cover anything you need. Just—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But Lauren’s chair was already swiveling with her abrupt absence, her coat shucked off the rack and her fingers feeling for the softness of a flower petal. She takes Kym to her and hugs her so hard she can feel her lungs give out with a wheeze.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you. Thank you—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Think nothing of it. Go!!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And she goes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hadn’t she heard?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s free today.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels at once eons and too little time, but before her mind has time to catch up her feet are touching the expanse of grey, eggshell cobble paving the radius of the Tower. When she doubles over to catch a breath that cannot seem to please her, she can feel the burning stares of passersby on her back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t care. She was long, long past caring what exactly people thought of her. She was a huntress chasing someone who was right in front of her all along, so close now. So close she could taste his laughter, touch his happiness, could know his restlessness purely because it was her own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks up, and the image of the tower, high and blunt as a needle, cutting through the tapestry of the sky, blurs in her vision. She makes out fuzzy edges of a door, a long spire of cragged stone, greys and blacks and browns and whites, blinding, ever present, omniscient whites.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She moves forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite herself, her legs tremble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breath comes in uneven bursts, and as a mode of comfort, she takes to clutching the stem of her hydrangea blossom in clammy palms. Damn, </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mine?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, subordinate. Are you deaf? Your favorite flower. It can’t be hyacinths...not that much anyway.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I….don’t know if I’ve ever considered it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hm… I’ll have to keep trying, then.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No—“ he sighs, sounding for some reason worried. It at once amuses her and irritates her, his stubbornness. She shifts her hips on the bed, tries to change the weight so he may speak. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t have to.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know mine,” she says, whispering into the daisy petals pressed on her lips. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He glances over, eyes darting to the daisy and looking as though he’d like nothing more than to </span>
  </em>
  <span>be </span>
  <em>
    <span>it. His longing fills her with a thrill and a fear, a hatred and a desire. She doesn’t know what to do with herself when he’s so close like this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah. I do.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Then?” She smiles. “Tit for tat. A deal’s a deal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He croaks out a laugh. “Your deal is my deal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your deal is my deal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She should have held him more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was what she had thought through the interim. That she should have done so much with him when she had the chance to touch him, press herself to her partner’s side and never let go, like a cluster of hydrangea flowers, bound so irreparably they can barely move without suffocating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I like hydrangeas.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s so irritating. It comes horribly unprepared, as the clock ticks down on his impending departure. Ten minutes until he’ll step out the door, ten minutes until she won’t see him for five years. And he decides to tell her now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hydrangeas?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He nods, shrugging on a coat. The spring outside is still chilly. “Yes. I...never had a particular affinity for them when I was young. But I grew on them. They—seemed like flowers that would never wither. They would look so ethereal in the sun, all bunched together like that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He smiled, the lines of his mouth hidden behind strands of his hair. He was so beautiful. He was always beautiful, more affecting than a bullet, more cautious than a rosebud.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I like them. Their life.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He looks up. Someone should take a picture of him, she thinks. Right then. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She nods. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know what I have to do.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He cocks his head, eyes studying her, as though she’s something indecipherable he must learn, a lock he has to pick. It drives her up the wall. She should tug him back now, from the undertow, hands steadfast on his. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She can’t do that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She nods, daybreak streaming through the windows of his apartment and obscuring her vision of him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or perhaps it is only tears. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like ten years ago. It might as well have been. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, she stands in front of the main entrance to the tower, one man on her mind. There is wind in her hair. There is sunlight seeping into her coat. There is a flower in her pocket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pushes the door open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the hazy film of a mirror, splattered with ages of long-forgotten residue, Kieran White is nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lays claim to no possession, no existence worth a name. He is defined by the angles that define him, the lines that sketch down his body and illustrate him in a life of lustre and labels. He is no label. He is no person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is no more a prisoner, a mournful wail of sorrow, a devil borne from eaten ashes. He smooths pleats out of his clothes, preens himself with bird-like scrutiny. He laces up his undershirt, dusts off his stiff pants and threads a hand through his loose hair with trembling, unsure fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is a normal, rather boring man, and he can afford to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>unsure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The navy lines of his blazer fit in panels down his body, folding in the mirror when he bends to micromanage every detail-- the jest of his blue eyes, the slant of his brow, the pleasurable ache of his cheekbones. Except for his hands, he appears smooth as stone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He cards fingers through his hair again, picking and tousling. It falls in waves around his shoulders, frames his face with dark light. Still it looks unnatural, tangled, falling in front of his face like a wet dog. He spits it out of his mouth, frowning with discontent and irritation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Need some help, subordinate?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's funny that his heart doesn't completely stop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In fact, it strikes him as undeserving that it didn’t. He's been hearing that voice for upwards of six years now, and every time he suddenly remembers the jarring inflections, like he could somehow forget. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Here, now, it feels domestic. As though everything, every moment that he could care less about and suddenly care too much for has led up to this culmination of her chanting that pet name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to find her leaning against the open silhouette of the door, coat slung over her shoulders and a smile on her pretty lips. She still wears her uniform, detective badge somber in the backlight. He feels so proud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A little smile curves over his face. He can't help it; the amusement dancing in the air infects him. They stand together, though feet apart; despite it being in a dusty prison changing room, he knows they were made to stand there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly she reaches into her pocket. She comes out dangling something in her fingers, like beckoning a cat. It's a long, dusky blue ribbon, silky and shining like seafoam. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What am I," he asks sardonically, "A doll?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren shrugs, looping the ribbon through her fingers, kicking off the door and striding up to him. He swallows as the fabric whines around the digits, snaking around her knuckles until it will end up in his hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she's only a breath away he looks down at her, eyes never leaving the movement of her hands. Neither of them talk. Their words could shatter a wine glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It has been an eternity. It hasn't been long enough to prepare himself. It's been too long for him to still, even now, restrain himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he does. Kieran White may be nothing in the mirror, but in front of Lauren Sinclair he is nothing but the definition of gentle, careful, attentive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>He turns around to face the mirror, watching his blank, hesitant face in the grimy reflection as Lauren slides up in the back, hands drawing up to catch his hair. She touches him like porcelain, and he wants to laugh at her delicacy with him. Her fingers thread through, combing strands back over his shoulder blades.</span> <span>It feels like a crime; any other comfort would be an insult. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, after a brief moment of hesitation and a strange spark in her eyes that gives him pause, she splits his hair into sections.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What—?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm trying something."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just trust me. Humor me for a second.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth, then closes it. The weight of his hair disappears, little by little, until he feels her begin to loop the ribbon around the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"There." She said, hitting his shoulder lightly to dismiss him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he reaches back, he finds his hair in a neat plait, sections even and perfect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I…" She paused. "Thought it was time for something new."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stares open mouthed, lips agape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d dared, bet, and won; every movement of hers was a challenge; a taunt, to see if he’d lose his control and touch her. He would like to. He thinks of the rest of his life, asking her to do this over and over again, half for the look, half for the simple sensation.</span>
</p><p><br/>They stand in front of the mirror, though, and neither of them move to touch each other. It seems the years have worn down their confidence to brittle marrow, and now they have another battle to wage, this one with inhibition. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can see the arc of his hands, those once folded behind metal bars. When she’d go to see him, in the bowels of midnight where no light would grow, she’d still be able to see his fingers. Long, lithe, with knuckles like pinpricks. If anything that was the most enigmatic thing about him—what he’d do with his hands next. He could do so much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She moves slightly in front of him, and he allows her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at us.” She says softly, eyes traveling over them both in the mirror. He towers over her, hands in his pockets, face ambiguous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look how old we’ve gotten.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles sadly, voice barely there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran bends until his chin hovers a phantom distance above the slope of her shoulder. He’s a quarter away from closing before resolutely remembering that he shouldn’t touch her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, I </span>
  </em>
  <span>have, yes.” He makes a show of picking at his face. “Look! All wrinkly. You look as fresh as a daisy—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you’re going to lay it on </span>
  <em>
    <span>thick—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>she hits his knee with her heel, and he winces—“at least be subtle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He falls silent, his eyes traveling over the image superimposed on the glass. He sees the crimson of her hair, red like blood, and the sin of his eyes, blue like a fire. They were young, once, younger than children but too old to be infantile. And the people that stared back at them now were caught in some hopeless limbo, one where they couldn’t define themselves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The children of the revolution had grown into moss, and only Lauren and Kieran were left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kieran.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His name left her lips for the first time, uncertain and tentative. He reeled back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, darling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She slowly turned; he watched her fingers work her pockets again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were shaking, like his. To see them shake was a thunderclap, a slap in the face. She trembled for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Laur—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he could finish, she’d taken his hands and pressed something into them. It was soft, like spun sugar, felt odd in his calloused, firm palms. Lauren retracted her hands, cold fingers retreating to the sure restraint of her coat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just—!” She waved a hand impatiently. “Tell me if you like it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his fist. Inside, fit snug and rounded like a globe—a single hydrangea, the sea-blue of his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She spread her fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You remembered.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like the words are blasphemy. It’s layered in a thick undertone of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something—</span>
  </em>
  <span>a commissure of awe, reproach, and a delicious, reverent prose that stirs the urge within her to throw herself at him. He holds the flower stem like she’s given him ambrosia. He holds it how she wished he’d hold her—like his third limb. A part of him that will never separate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can barely stand it. The tension feels like molasses. His lips part to say something—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll—“ she suddenly became uncharacteristically bashful, rosy cheeks turned away from him, her back retreating towards the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let you finish up. I’ll be—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t—“ </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He calls out before he can stop himself. The vision of her back turned to him stirred a menace, one that clawed at the edges and told him to god—god, for god’s sake, </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch her </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. Before he can’t anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns, alarmed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be outside, Kieran.” She smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll wait for you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lips tightened. “I won’t be long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take your time.” She smiled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think I’ve taken way too much of that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren inhaled sharply. The tension ricocheted like gunfire. Could she touch him? Would he? Were they allowed to? She wanted to. He wanted to. What silly swan dance were they still waltzing?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren smiled tightly and then vanished in a blink. He heard the phantom whispers of her heels on the grimy hallway tile. They faded like watermarks, down into a din of silence, the sound the outside emitted. He looked back towards himself in the mirror.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His clothes were snug. His neck was exposed, veins leading down to a heaving throat. He stood ramrod straight. His eyes blazed a stalwart, steady blue. There was sunlight on his face. There was healthy skin on his cheeks. There was a flower in his pocket. He was nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was something; he was a man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he had someone to go home with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a smile, Kieran White turned his back on his reflection, closing the door behind him and leaving nothing behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has never left anything behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m never seeing you back here. Understood?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, Monsieur. I have somewhere to be, now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s good.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Th-“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Can I tell you something?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...yes. Of course you may, what is it?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You seem like a sweet boy. Oh don’t look at me like that—I’ll make my own judgements of you. I want to tell you—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That some things will change. Some won’t. Pick and choose which to attend to. Cherish them. Change is what life is.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I—thank you, sir.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t call me sir, boy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Understood, sir.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun cracks a pink yolk in the sky, descending over a neat, nesting doll cascade of houses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A single woman stands on the cobblestone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For all the shock she is—blood red in her hair, molten gold straight from a river in her eyes—nobody pays much attention to her. Though she draws light to her like a dreamcatcher, her back to the Tower and figure planted in the middle of the walkway, she is nothing as people go about the final inkling of their day. They walk by her as though she isn’t there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren takes a deep breath. She can smell spring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A wide door groans open. It takes the strength of a thousand able bodies, the blood and sweat of one man, to heave it bare. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some people glance up, towards the new, black space. But the light yearns for their attention, and they hastily turn away, through and into soft peach hues and a golden nostalgia unique to them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren turns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From out of a glen of darkness, after a heartbeat of ten seconds, a face emerges. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time the sunset has glazed his face in half a decade. She watches it work on him slowly; first a sliver on his hair, then ripples over his forehead, then a paint stroke over shallow cheekbones. A slow drawl over the planes of an awed, reverent face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then a man steps out of grainy lowlight into the breastbone of twilight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran takes in the slap of air on his face—like a cold butter knife, slicing imprints of the last five years over his skin. He lifts his eyes to the sky, sees clouds like seagulls, a sky like oxygen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Free. He’s free; he realizes this quite suddenly, very unexpectedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t hit him that morning when he woke. It hadn’t hit him when he’d snuffed out the candle in his cell for the last time, touched the checkerboard bars of the window in pained disbelief. It hadn’t hit when he shrugged on his coat, when Mr. Crenshaw had looked him dead in the eye with his salt and pepper beard and determined, kindly eyes and said he’d never like to see him back, ever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it hits him now. <br/></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could go anywhere he liked—he could run to the very edges of the earth, touch the skyline with his fingertips, legs aching pleasantly, then forcefully as he runs, runs, runs. He could stretch out his arms and welcome any willing breeze, bare his teeth and challenge the stars. He could do anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran looks down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren is watching. Her perfect little figure stands like a saturated shadow in his vision, lips twisted and quivering in humorless happiness. She is the focal point of his canvas. She is the only one he can see.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows that even though he has all the freedom in the world—there’s only one person he’d like to follow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he responds to her smile with one of his own. Hops down from the steps lightly, compensating the distance between them with a few long strides. She turns wordlessly, already starting down the street. He follows, steps falling in perfect time with hers. Their strides write sonnets on cobble, all they leave behind meaningless, day in day out drivel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And still, nobody looks. Because for all intents and purposes, they are the least important people in the universe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren and Kieran; the saviors of a city long reborn, Lune; nobody to name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not much has changed, hm?” He observes casually, hands splayed over his head in a languid stretch. Twilight warms his back and stays in his black hair, and it’s both too hot and too little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did you expect? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Flying cars—?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lauren looks over at him in disdain, waggling her fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up! No—but...I dunno. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Some</span>
  </em>
  <span>thing should be different.” He paused. “You’re going to have to catch me up. On things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t worry.” She looks down at her heels, laughing. “If I don’t, how will you ever function in proper society?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I leave my life in your hands, Officer.” He frowns. “I suppose I better get myself situated.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren paused. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well….” his voice was thoughtful. “I’m basically homeless. I—</span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t look at me like that.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He warned. She’d shot him something of an enigmatic look, eyebrows quirked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I won’t accept help, and certainly not anything you’re going to grovel to offer me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“When </span>
  </em>
  <span>have I ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>groveled—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got to get back on my own feet, that’s what. I’ll just—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked around. The night began to taste like caramel, brown washes of light illuminating the brickwork of shops on the street. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s got to be a hotel still open, or something. I’ll go—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kieran.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wondered if he’d ever get used to it, the sound of his given name bare in broad nighttime. It wasn’t just that—it was the significant way she said it. He looked at her curiously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to worry about any of that. I have…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stopped, cheeks a bit pink. “There’s something I have to show you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran blinked. “Oh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. If she asked him like that, there’s really no other possibility for him but to follow her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They walk on. Kieran relearns the sights of the city he grew up in and the taste of walking unfettered. It’s bittersweet, a tang not unlike resignation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finds himself falling into easy, blameless conversation with Lauren as he goes on. Despite the low stirring in his belly, the one that tells him this is an affront—that he shouldn’t dare to take another step—he soldiers on. He tells the natural urge to take Lauren’s small fingers and loop it into his elbow to stuff it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon, the luxury of the upper echelon of the 11th falls from grace, leading them down a familiar road of houses the color of brown butter. Kieran begins to catch on, his eyes finding the bobbing mess of red hair in front of him. She has resolutely not looked him in the eye once.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Lauren...where—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just a bit further.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He walks. The road begins to feel warm, like a spot where someone has already sat. A streetlamp beckons him to kick the base, his vision begs to mime phantom snowflakes. He knows. He does not want to know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stops when they’re at the door of his old apartment, the same bronze, emblazoned number ‘16’ staring back at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except now, it looks oddly polished, cared for with no rust remnants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lauren—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says exasperatedly, perhaps even a little crazed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Are—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s on the second step, the one that used to creak with mirth the rare occasions someone pressed it. It doesn’t make a peep now; as seamless as a flicker transition. Finally, finally she looks down at him, hair blinding, blood red. If he could throw the color of it into the sky, the sun wouldn’t need to die every night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He laughs, high and reedy. “Are you daft? Someone’s probably in there—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Subordinate.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She huffs, crossing her arms about her chest. He wants to scream at the insufferable, harsh pout of her jaw, the cock of her hip, and how badly he wants to grab both of them right there on the sun-bathed street and kiss her until they both have no more sense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lauren. Lauren, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lauren—you didn’t!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He yells, looking incredulously at the door. He thinks he knows what she did, and he hates her for it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It all comes out in a rush. One minute she’s got a conflict playing out on her face, the next she bends, lashes dusting her cheeks as she rambles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Look—</span>
  </em>
  <span>I couldn’t take it, Kieran. I was coming around here in the beginning—just to make sure things weren’t collecting so much dust it’s lethal—and—</span>
  <em>
    <span>and then </span>
  </em>
  <span>your landlady was here when I came one day, about a year in, inspecting everything to box up and sell and when I </span>
  <em>
    <span>told </span>
  </em>
  <span>her it was taken for she shot me a look and asked by whom and I just—!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She inhales. Her voice borders on desperate. He stands in the street, polished shoes on cobble, like the biggest idiot on the planet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So I said—I said it was mine. That I lived here. And it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>true, wasn’t it?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She asked, angrily now. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been living here, practically anyway—so I—! And you can’t take it back, not after so long!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She waves her hands as if to dismiss him, a furious flush on her face as she about-turns to mount the last step and jam the keys into the lock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine! Sleep out on the street, it’s not like—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lauren. Wait.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice dies like a blackbird with a bullet in its belly, hands stilling before falling to her sides. She hangs her head, an acknowledgement of her defeat, because he spoke in <em>that</em> voice. The one that’s raspy and low and sounds both dangerous and reverent. He’s got his face downcast, one broad hand rubbing a temple. His shoulders are shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ki—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You stubborn, stupid idiot!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“If you’re going to just call me names I’ll—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No—“ </span>
  </em>
  <span>and before she has time to react he’s grabbed the railing beside where she stands, eyes pleading, blue and fathomless. They’re so close, and she wants to close the gap between them and fall so far, so fast that she’ll break. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks up at her with an expression that is damn near indecent. She makes him want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kneel </span>
  </em>
  <span>and mark where she walks with glass. She makes him want to laugh, hysterical and high until she’ll press his sides open with concern. She makes him want to run himself to ruin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re brilliant. Why? Why would you do this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because—“ she stops. “Well. Because.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your deal is my deal. I go where you go and I pave the way for you to follow. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your deal is my deal. We have a deal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gestures vaguely to his door, her eyes never leaving his, nose scrunched up in an endearing pout of general disapproval. “The…apartment would get musty. You'd have been dealing with a lot—and damn if I’d help if you’d ask.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughs. It’s a beautiful thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The neighbors might talk.” He says wistfully. “Who knows what they’ll say.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who cares what they say about us?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She whispers. If he kisses her here on the pavement, he could taste her phantoms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They can say anything they like!” She says, hands on her hips. “We’ll know, anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Grinning, Kieran leaps up the steps in duplicates, suddenly towering above her, bending at the waist, broad palms dancing over his sides.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well!” He snorts. “Let’s go! You better not have touched my stuff—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t seriously expect—“ she scoffed. “What would you have liked me to do, sleep in the middle of the floor?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh...no. What’s mine is yours. You can do whatever you please.” He says absently, taking the key from her and twisting the lock with an odd kind of muscle memory. His voice is far away and airy, but it breezes through her heatedly, leaving blotches of skin laiden with gooseflesh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steps in. It’s like stepping through a veil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost nothing has changed from the outside. The wallpaper remains a husky, loose brown, the furniture in its exact position. He walks into a diorama, an exact replica of the past down to the furling chestnut edges of his tables and chairs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But when he looks closer, dumbfounded in the middle of his foyer and scanning every inch, there are clues that tell him that this isn’t some joke. Because he’d never have purchased silk pillows for his couch; he’d never hang his drawings on the wall outside, but there they were, the pictures of the main square and little doves biting into breadcrumbs; there are clothes draped over settees that are too thin and delicate to be his, there's the scent of honey through the kitchen. The sink no longer drips, healed over with a rose-gold finish. There is a pot of hydrangeas out on the countertop, waiting for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are little pieces of her over the house, and when he comes out of his haze to see her moving about, maneuvering in his home like she knows it intimately as his own body, he knows it’s not just his anymore. It’s hers, too. It’s theirs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t track dirt,” she says, scowling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you, my mother?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I spent five damn years of my life keeping this up, you better not ruin it within the first few seconds.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right. Right.” Then, he frowns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you ever—I mean how did you make it all so…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren doesn’t look at him, but suddenly looks very preoccupied with the arc of her feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I came by. Sometimes. More often than not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The implication is murderous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A wanton image of her hair spilling over his pillows creases through his mind, and he tamps it down, feet beating against the carpet as he moves tentatively through the house. There is both a calm and a torrent in the air, both a lull and a cacophony. The silence blares in his ears. He wants her to talk. More. More.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His feet lead him to every corner, inspecting things like a cat would. He maps the centimeters that are now hers to claim, traces the edges of what was once </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>very lonesome, fractional living space.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then suddenly, as fate would tug him, he is by the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the only door whose knob hasn’t been polished, grey splotches painting the topaz mockery of a handle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can feel her eyes on his back. No doubt she’s fiddling with her fingers, looking down at the floor and trying, desperately, to sound level when she speaks to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t touch it.” She says in a rush, breathless. He would, if he could, stride over to her and give her all the breath she doesn’t seem to have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rested his fingers on the handle. It made the familiar protest it always had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because it wasn’t mine to touch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns to her slowly, the pads of his fingers resting on the handle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could have...I almost did, go in. But then I thought of you—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t have…” he murmurs, “been upset. If you had.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I would have. It’s yours. It’s the only thing in the house that is yours. That’s sacred. I couldn’t touch that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s mine is yours,” he says quietly, resting the hinges so they groan with the friction of brass on brass, age on age, time on innumerable promises. “Always. I’d give you anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not this,” she reiterates solemnly.  “Not this. I want you to have this. I don’t want to go in if you’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>there—“ </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands there, a war in his heart. For not the first time since his release, a strange sorrow overtakes him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a sorrow borne from knowing he could, in fact, love a little too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steps away from the door, smiling. “There are pictures of you in there, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has the sheer gall to look surprised. “Is there?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled ruefully. “You were always my perfect example. Of what it meant to live.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks shocked, glorious mouth opening and closing over unformed words. He wished it would close over his eyelids, over his cheeks and palms and knuckles. He wants it elsewhere, put to more efficient use. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he remembers himself and shrugs his coat off, his fingers find the hydrangea still in his pocket. It’s a miracle that the blue petals aren’t crimped with carelessness, with how he’d managed it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah-“ he holds it up. “I’ll put this in another vase.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You remember where they are?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah—I’m not completely fucking dense—ah-!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It appears he actually is, for with a concerning thud he knocks his hipbone into a side table trying to get to the kitchen countertop. Lauren darts forward and nabs the hydrangea from his hands so he can right the table before it spills the gramophone onto his feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So. You proved </span>
  <em>
    <span>that—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fluke.” He sighs, nudging the gramophone. It’s one he’d had for years but never used. There was never a need to—blasting music alone made him feel silly. And silence was the only friend he could afford, so he’d kept it around. They’d only used it when they’d stayed here together, nights saved with fumbling feet and smooth fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tapped the chestnut lacquer thoughtfully. “Does this thing still work?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. “I’ve put it on a couple times. It’s dusty, though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s barely listening, a half-formed intent in his mind. He opens the box, finds a record still in the teeth of the needle. Fiddling a bit, he bends and manages the ridges. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon, a smooth, crooning melody burns from the apex of the needle, low and sonorous. It’s a bit harsh, but it eventually mellows and becomes part of the background.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran looks at her significantly. She’s got an unreadable look on her face, eyes caught with his. The music drones on and on and on, but a bomb could hit the house and he still wouldn’t take his eyes off of hers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The same thought overtakes her at the same time, he can see. He smiles, proud of how even though so many things have changed, she definitely hasn’t. Still an open book.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bends, extending a hand, knuckles pink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs. It’s genuine, filled with more warmth than she’d care to admit. The feeling—it’s intense, overwhelming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have.” She says, slipping a hand into his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time they’ve touched that night, this fraction of five years. It wasn’t electric, buzzing, sparks of unfathomable relief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It just felt like home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He is a fine dancer,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers, so low only he can hear. Like there was anyone else who could. He hides a shiver with the way he pulls her closer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran knows he’ll fall apart if he presses her to his chest. He’ll crumble and do something rash, and he can’t do that to her. Not when he doesn’t really know. He never strikes when he’s not sure. So instead he grips her hand and lets her lead. Her version of leading is bold, and she slips a hand over the small of his back. <br/></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It should, by all means, feel like an intrusion, foreign and subversive. It just feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sway together in the middle of the room. At some point the music becomes meaningless white noise, and they dance slowly even though the music picks up speed. It feels both like moving through molasses and groaning through hyper speed. They can smell honeycomb and fall branches, white flowers in springtime and the musk of old books. A classroom, a library, a study, a bedroom. A breeze on a window, seafoam beating abuse against a shoreline. The taste of black currants and strawberries and spices filled with ash. The feeling of a shriek, a wail of triumph, a smooth, soft drone of happy laughter, of pleased unity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then the sound of their feet on the carpet. One silent, the whisper and woe of a long forbidden guest. One loud, boisterous and bold, because its owner was like that, ferocious and commandeering, always acting on instinct.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite the space between them, despite the years of hesitance and of her sitting beyond where he could reach, of their past and all the gore that echoes through their hollows, they know each other like a pair. Like two sides of the moon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-“ she begins, voice not her own. It sounds too syrupy. She feels like a stranger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cœur?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I—“ she swallowed. He watched the core of her throat bob, nose resting in the dip of her clavicle. He was so close, too close, and his hands against hers were warm, warm like they always were. Warm with summer and fear and the import of what he wanted to do to her seeping into every crack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” She smiled bitterly. “I’ll bet you missed this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dancing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah. No. I didn’t, really.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did you miss? The most?” She asked. He continued to sway with her back and forth, shoulder blades drawn back. She could feel the muscles of his back contract against her palms, and she knew he was alive, that he could feel and want.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants for so many things, because he is a free man and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>want, now. He can want so badly he does something selfish, brash. He can want so badly it renders him catatonic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you trying to fish for, officer?” He says, smiling against her neck. She shudders. He was the only one she’d still allow to call her officer, and the word is lonesome and beautiful, high like a howl. It has history and love in every syllable, and she chases it into his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” She hummed. “Nothing.” She dragged her hands to his chest, bracing herself as he pulled closer and closer, gravity getting impatient.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“I didn’t miss you all that much.”</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d almost forgotten how sweet his lies sounded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They felt like she had ripped them out of him against his own will, torn asunder with pulp to spare. She cherished the sour rumble of his chest she could feel with her fingertips, the way when she looked up, he was there, everywhere, fingers laced in hers and their feet swaying, swaying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s lost all perception of where she is in the room. His living room connected seamlessly to everywhere else, and she finds that somehow, the kitchen counter is at her back, figure wedged between the cool marble and the heat of his body. His palms are blisteringly warm, enough to leave her heaving and burnt as they ripple and crest over the fabric at her waist. She breathes, and it’s probably uneven. She doesn’t notice over the sight of his hair falling loose from its braid, from the way his throat bobs as he swallows, determined eyes set on her, only her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Did you miss me, darling?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He whispers, so close to the crook of her neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her instinctual response comes to her head first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. <br/></span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, I didn’t, idiot, subordinate, pain in the ass. No. I didn’t really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, now kiss me please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All variations of a negative, which she was sure would elicit an indignant response.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But before her mind can stop her, before the practiced restraint she’d been desperately holding into can rein it in, she says—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stills in her arms, fingers curving over hers. It doesn’t feel that way, though. It feels like they’ve just begun to move, with her back to the counter and his body pressing the arc of her stomach to his. The pull of the space in between them is greater than the universe can hold, only a moment's hesitation before words come spilling out of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Kieran I missed you, I missed you so, very much, oh my god, yes—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran sighs against her, and that does it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands are everywhere—her face, the apples of her cheeks, her hair—and then with a flash of his eyes his lips are on hers, and finally, finally, she touches him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lauren—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She begs. <em>“I missed you. I missed you—oh, oh my god-“</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushes her against the countertop and she only pushes back into him, and grips his waist so hard she fears he’ll shatter. If he does, it would be some great kind of honor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kieran touches her like he’s drunk, like his hands are encased in resin. Slow, sweet, almost disbelieving. Finally, finally, fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d wanted it for so </span>
  <em>
    <span>long, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s insufferable, insufficient. He hisses when she hooks a leg around his waist, and she laughs, rough and raucous. The hydrangea vase clinks behind them. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter; nothing matters but taking her to their bed and doing what he wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He picks her up and she gasps, a broad smile against his teeth, licking his heart with the press of her body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They’re free. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There are no more barriers, walls, hesitations. There is only an endless horizon ahead of them, filled with spring clouds and summer sunsets and her hands, </span>
  <em>
    <span>her hands in his, if she accepts his offering of the rest of his life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He picks her up, and she’s a kind of euphoria in his hands like this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Finally, finally, finally. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He digs his palms into the valley of her waist, mouths at every inch of blessed skin he can, swallows her desperate noises like morsels he’d starved himself for. He worships her the way he’d ought to a thousand other times, knees scraped with longing. He allows himself every indulgence he had yearned for—to make her happy, to be happy with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stumbles into a bedroom that he hasn’t used in five years. It’s dark and sort of intimidating, like an old friend he’s trying to catch up with. But that’s okay. It’s alright. She is with him, and if her hollow bones and her small fragments of forever weren’t just empty promises, then nothing will be </span>
  <span><em>wrong </em>ever again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They shut the door, singing an epitaph to a darkness they are loathe to taste, bound by their hands as they press it to the mattress and scream. As though they had ever stopped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lune once more. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hydrangeas are forgotten on the countertop. They do not matter anymore; he has already been understood. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>GUYS WE’RE HERE. WE’RE FINALLY HERE OH MY GOD.</p><p>A little bit of everything has been leading up to this. This was what I had wanted to write since May of last year—and some small fragments of AAoCaA were formed in anticipation for this. </p><p>First and foremost, I have to thank everyone for getting me to the place where I can write this. If it hadn’t been for you (yes you, you reading this, my darling reader! I’m talking specifically and only to you!) you wouldn’t be reading today. Thank you.</p><p>I wanna see if you can find the references I sprinkled in, and if you go back and reread by any chance, find which aspects of AAoCaA!Lauki were determined by this moment.</p><p>If you might notice, TLoF (with the exception of the finale chapter), starts and ends with a chapter dedicated to the main two’s favorite flower. I think, first, before I go and write said finale, that I should take the time to explain why Hydrangeas are Kieran’s favorite flower.</p><p>It’s not a popular opinion amongst us, I know that. And it might seem like a weird flower to pick. But way back in the day, I chose it for the meanings. Hydrangeas can mean either of two things:</p><p>a) frigidity, heartlessness<br/>b) heartfelt feelings, gratitude at being understood</p><p>Two polar opposites. But I thought they tied in nicely to Kieran’s arc throughout TLoF; going from resignation and depression to learning to be accepted, loved, and being grateful for that. Conceptually, I felt it the most representative of what he went through as a person, and what his end goal should be. This chapter, if you go back and read, is the only “linear” chapter in TLoF, as the first chapter, “Daisies,” is the morning after this one. We go from a realization into a clean slate, innocence and a new beginning.</p><p>With that being said, I suppose some of this definition also applies to me. I still cannot believe the amount of kindness I have received from this community and this corner of the universe. Everything you have given me is more than what I was expecting. I still remember what I was doing around this time last year; reading fanfiction written by you all. Even now, as the community has grown, I still feel like that person again, excited to sit down and read a story rendered with so much care and love and devotion. Thank you, a thousand times over, for understanding me, too. You all are my hydrangeas</p><p>I won’t keep you waiting forever, I promise. The finale will be soon—and then. Onto bigger and better things. I cannot wait.</p><p>Much love &lt;3 kudos and comments are every flower in the universe </p><p>-thumbipeach</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I found I like little domestic drabbles a bit more than I like writing plot. Well.</p><p>Little snippets that won’t make it into AAoCaA for convolution reasons. For the most part not in chronological order. Will not be updated as regularly as the main fic, I just write these when I’m sick of the angst ;)</p><p>✨🌸🌼🌺 <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6F46tWbnduHq41KwDp9NNG?si=UBIPyVw_Tjueokfko0vdxA"> Here </a> is the link to the official Spotify playlist! 🌺🌼🌸✨</p><p>Kudos are daisies &lt;3</p><p>-thumbipeach</p></blockquote></div></div>
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